m&m 


i 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE 


OP 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER: 


WITH  A 


MEMOIR  OF  HER  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER, 


BY   BENJAMIN   LUNDY. 


Shall  we  behold,  unheeding, 
Life's  holiest  feelings  crush'd  ? 

When  woman's  heart  is  bleeding, 
Shall  woman's  voice  be  hush'd? 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  LEMUEL  HOWELI* 
1836. 


'- 


PREFACE. 


IN  offering  to  the  public  a  collection  of  the  Poetical  Works 
of  Elizabeth  Margaret  Chandler,  it  is  considered  unnecessary 
to  say  much  in  explanation  of  the  motives  which  have  in- 
fluenced those  concerned  in  the  compilation. — Among  the 
female  writers  of  modern  times,  who  have  distinguished 
themselves  in  philanthropy  and  moral  excellence,  few,  indeed, 
if  any,  have  presented  stronger  claims  to  favourable  notice, 
than  the  amiable  author  of  the  valuable  essays  and  miscella- 
neous pieces  comprised  in  this  volume.  Personally,  she  was 
unknown  to  the  literary  world — and  even  her  name  was  not 
familiar  to  the  reading  community ;  yet  the  beautiful  and  ex- 
cellent productions  of  her  pen,  emanating  from  a  refined  and 
highly  cultivated  mind,  will  be  found  worthy  an  attentive 
perusal ;  and  their  merit  will,  no  doubt,  be  properly  appre- 
ciated by  the  virtuous  and  discriminating.  The  philosophic 
and  sentimental  piety  manifested  in  them ;  the  liberal  princi- 
ples of  charity  and  benevolence  which  they  inculcate ;  and 
the  lessons  of  justice,  humanity,  and  active  philanthropy,  that 
are  taught  by  them,  cannot  fail  to  recommend  the  book  to 
the  libraries  of  the  learned,  the  circles  of  literary  taste,  and  to 
readers,  in  general,  who  take  an  interest  in  the  march  of  hu- 
man improvement,  and  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  mankind. 

These  considerations,  it  may  be  presumed,  will  afford  a 
sufficient  inducement  for  the  humane  and  the  philanthropic  to 
acquaint  themselves  with  the  contents  of  the  volume. — And 
that  they  may  be  found  profitable  in  awakening  and  increas- 
ing the  disposition  to  spread  the  light  of  Christian  philanthropy, 
and  in  promoting  more  zealous  efforts  to  meliorate  the  condi- 
tion of  oppressed  and  suffering  humanity,  is  the  ardent  desire 
and  truly  cherished  hope  of 

THE  PUBLISHER. 
PHILADELPHIA,    ) 
Sixth  Month,  1836.  {  3 


Ml  ft 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

MEMOIR 7 

The  Brandy  wine 47 

The  Afric's  Dream 50 

John  Woolman 51 

Confessions  of  the  Year 52 

New  Year's  Eve 55 

The  Slave's  Appeal 57 

Heaven  Help  Ye 58 

Christian  Love 58 

The  Kneeling  Slave 59 

Story-Telling 59 

Our  Father 61 

Doom    62 

The  Grave  of  the  Unfortunate .  63 

Think  of  our  Country's  Glory .  64 

The  Kingfisher 64 

To  Those  I  love 66 

Sadness , .  67 

Think  of  the  Slave 68 

The  Bereaved  Father 68 

O  Tell  me  not,  I  shall  forget. .  69 

What  is  a  Slave,  Mother  ? . . . .  70 

The  Child's  Evening  Hymn. .  72 
The    enfranchised    Slaves     to 

their  Benefactress 73 

Summer  Morning 74 

Washington  City  Prison 75 

The  Sunset  Hour 78 

The  Devoted 79 

Deaf  and  Dumb 80 

The  Anointing 80 

The  Soldier's  Prayer 82 

The  Appeal  of  the  Choctaw. .  83 

Noah 85 

The  Battle-Field 86 

1* 


Page 

Moonlight 87 

Pharaoh 88 

The  Depths  of  the  Sea 92 

The  Recaptured  Slave 93 

Jephtha's  Vow 95 

Anthony  Benezet 98 

The  Sold 99 

Gloom 100 

Evening  Thoughts 100 

Storm 102 

A  True  Ballad 103 

Thy  Thunder  Pealeth  o'er  Us.  105 

Aline 106 

The  Sugar-Plums 108 

O,  Press  me  not  to  Taste  again  108 

Looking  at  the  Soldiers 109 

To  a  Stranger 110 

Slave  Produce Ill 

Little  Sado's  Story 112 

An  Appeal  for  the  Oppressed.   114 

The  Sylvan  Grave 116 

Night 117 

Reminiscence 118 

Juan  de  Paresa 119 

The  Slave-Mother's  Farewell.   122 

Repentance 123 

Christmas 124 

My  Cottage  Home 125 

The  Conscript's  Farewell 127 

The  Woods  Wanderer 129 

The  Forest  Vine 131 

Soliloquy  of  a  Duellist 133 

The  Wife's  Lament 135 

The  Slave-Ship 136 

The  Treaty  of  Penn 137 

5 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Midnight 138 

The  Negro  Father's  Lamenta- 
tion over  the  Body  of  his 

Infant  Son 140 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  two 

Children 141 

To  a  Friend  of  my  Youth. .  .  143 

Twilight  Thoughts 144 

To  A*****.» 145 

Remember  Me 146 

Schuylkill 147 

Death 148 

To  my  Cousin 149 

Forget  Me  Not 153 

The  Genius  of  Painting 154 

A  Vision 155 

A  New- Year's  Greeting 158 

To" a  Particular  Friend. .       .  159 


Page 

Where  are  They 160 

Emancipation 161 

The  Cherokee 162 

Gayashuta  to  the  Sons  of  Onas  164 

The  Slave 165 

The  Outcast 167 

Stanzas 168 

The  Chinese  Son 169 

To  a  Crocus 171 

True  Friendship 172 

A  Sketch 172 

To  the  Ladies'  Free  Produce 

Society 175 

To  Prudence  Crandall 176 

.Woman 177 

The  Indian  Mother  to  her  Son  179 

The  Indian  Camp 180 

6 


BY  B.  LUNDY. 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER  was  born  at  Centre,  near 
the  town  of  Wilmington,  in  the  State  of  Delaware,  on  the  24th 
day  of  the  Twelfth  Month  (December)  1807.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Thomas  Chandler,  a  very  respectable  farmer,  who 
possessed  a  handsome  competency,  and  lived  in  easy  circum- 
stances, though  he  was  not  reputed  wealthy  as  to  the  riches  of 
this  world.  He  received  a  liberal  education,  and  also  studied 
medicine ;  but  while  he  resided  in  the  country,  he  devoted  his 
attention  principally  to  agriculture.  The  name  of  her  mother 
was  Margaret  Evans,  who  was  born  at  the  city  of  Burlington, 
in  the  State  of  New-Jersey.  Both  the  Chandler  and  Evans 
families  were  of  English  origin,  their  ancestors  having  migrated 
to  this  country  at  an  early  period  of  its  settlement  by  the 
Europeans. 

Thomas  Chandler  and  his  wife  resided  at  Centre  a  number 
of  years  after  their  marriage,  where  they  were  highly  respected 
by  their  acquaintance  generally.  They  were  both  exemplary 
members  of  the  religious  society  of  Friends,  and  lived  in  strict 
conformity  with  its  established  rules  of  order  and  discipline. 
They  were  blessed  with  three  fine  healthy  children,  of  whom 
the  subject  of  this  memoir  was  the  youngest,  and  only  daughter. 
But  although  their  prospects  were  highly  flattering,  while  the 
peaceful  enjoyment  of  connubial  happiness  lightened  the  bur- 
thens of  worldly  care,  the  bright  anticipation.8  of  this  worthy 
family  were  destined  to  be  of  short  duration. — The  mother  died 
while  the  daughter  was  still  in  her  infancy. — Elizabeth  was 
then  too  young  to  be  sensible  of  the  irreparable  loss  which  she 
thus  sustained.  How  applicable  to  her  infantile  bereaved  con- 
dition were  the  following  elegant  lines  of  Barton ! — 

7 


MEMOIR    OF 

"  Blessings  rest  on  thee,  happy  one ! 

All  that  parental  love 
Could  ask,  or  wish,  since  life  begun, 
Be  given  thee  from  above. 

And  when,  through  childhood's  path  of  flowers, 

Thy  infant  steps  have  trod, 
Thy  soul  shall  be,  in  after  hours, 

Prepared  to  learn  of  GOD." 

Soon  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  Thomas  Chandler  removed 
to  Philadelphia,  where  he  was  for  some  length  of  time  success- 
fully engaged  in  the  practice  of  medicine.  He  placed  his  in- 
fant daughter  under  the  care  of  her  grandmother,  Elizabeth 
Evans,  who  then  resided  in  the  same  place.  Here  she  remained 
a  number  of  years.  Every  possible  care  was  taken  respecting 
her  morals  and  education,  by  her  friends,  with  whom  she  was 
a  particular  favourite.  Her  natural  disposition  was  mild,  yet 
lively,  and  her  temper  calm  and  even.  Her  faculties  were  bright 
and  vigorous,  and  her  perceptions  quick  and  penetrating.  As 
soon  as  she  was  old  enough,  she  was  put  to  school,  where  she 
made  rapid  progress  in  acquiring  the  rudiments,  and  afterwards 
a  knowledge,  of  the  higher  branches  of  a  common  or  general 
school  education. 

At  the  age  of  about  nine  years,  she  was  so  unfortunate  as  to 
lose  her  father,  in  addition  to  the  previous  loss  of  her  mother. 
She  was  now  left  an  orphan,  with  her  two  elder  brothers,  to 
buffet  the  cheerless  frowns  of  a  troublesome  world,  without  the 
aid  of  parental  advice  or  protection.  She  was  still  of  too  tender 
an  age  fully  to  estimate  the  great  bereavement  which  this  double 
misfortune  occasioned.  But  these  sorrowful  vicissitudes,  no 
doubt,  made  their  wonted  impressions  on  her  susceptible  mind, 
and  in  all  probability,  contributed  largely  to  give  it  that  seriously 
reflective  turn,  which  appeared  in  her  after-life  as  one  of  the 
most  distinguishing  traits  in  her  character. 

The  schools  which  she  attended,  were  established  by  the 
society  of  Friends,  and  conducted  by  teachers,  selected  espe- 
cially with  reference  to  their  exemplary  character,  and  their 
competency  for  the  station.  This  was  evidently  a  great  advan- 
tage to  the  youthful  pupil,  in  both  a  moral  and  religious  point 
of  view.  Considering  the  situation  in  which  Elizabeth  was 
now  placed,  it  was,  to  her,  a  matter  of  momentous  concern.  In 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  9 

addition  to  the  care  of  her  pious,  yet  fond  and  doating  grand- 
mother, she  experienced  the  kind  attention  and  wholesome  ad- 
monitions of  her  three  aunts,  Ruth,  Jane,  and  Amelia  Evans, 
the  sisters  of  her  deceased  mother.  But  all  their  efforts  to 
guard  her  against  the  temptations  and  allurements  of  a  deceit- 
ful world,  might  possibly  have  failed,  without  the  aid  of  these 
excellent  institutions,  surrounded  as  she  was  by  the  giddy, 
thoughtless  votaries  of  fashion  and  vitiating  amusement,  in  the 
gay  metropolis  of  Pennsylvania.  We  do  not  learn  that  she 
made  greater  proficiency  in  the  more  scientific  studies,  than 
many  others  of  her  contemporaries.  The  bent  of  her  mind, 
even  at  this  tender  age,  was  religiously  contemplative ;  and  she 
was  more  inclined  to  view  with  admiration  and  gratitude,  the 
works  of  the  adorable  Author  of  Nature,  as  they  were  unfolded 
to  her  mental  or  corporeal  vision,  than  to  pry  into  the  mysteries 
of  creation,  and  strive  to  attain  to  a  higher  degree  of  knowledge 
than  was,  perhaps,  vouchsafed  by  the  Creator.  She  manifested 
a  particular  fondness  for  literary  pursuits,  and  very  early  gave 
evidence  of  a  rare  talent  for  poetical  composition.  When  she 
was  but  little  over  nine  years  of  age,  she  wrote  several  stanzas, 
(the  first  noticed  by  her  friends,)  upon  the  occurrence  of  a  vio- 
lent tempest.  They  wore  so  well  composed,  for  one  so  young, 
that  they  excited  the  admiration  of  all  who  read  them.  Very 
shortly  afterwards,  she  wrote  another  piece,  on  the  same  subject, 
which  she  entitled,  "Refections  on  a  Thunder-gust."  The 
following  extract  will  give  some  idea  of  both  her  natural  ca- 
pacity, and  pious  train  of  thought : — 

"  When  lightnings  flash,  and  thunders  roll, 
To  God  I  will  direct  my  soul. 
When  sorrows  assail  my  troubled  mind, 
In  God  I  can  a  refuge  find. 


Preserved  by  him  from  every  snare, 
I'll  join  him  in  Heaven,  with  angels 


s  there." 

She  left  school  at  about  the  age  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years ; 
but  still  entertaining  an  ardent  desire  for  literary  improvement, 
she  read  much,  and  frequently  employed  her  pen  on  various 
subjects.  As  the  powers  of  her  intellectual  faculties  were  thus 
developing,  her  writings  further  attracted  the  attention  of  her 
friends  and  acquaintances,  who  often  solicited,  and  occasionally 
obtained  permission,  to  publish  articles  which  she  selected  from 


10  MEMOIR    OF 

among  them.  Yet,  such  was  her  retiring  modesty,  and  native 
diffidence,  that  she  did  not,  for  a  considerable  length  of  time, 
permit  her  name  to  be  used  publicly,  as  an  author.  Some  of 
the  most  popular  periodicals  of  the  day  were  thus  enriched  by 
the  productions  of  her  pen,  while  she  was  almost  entirely  un- 
known to  the  world.  She  began  to  write,  particularly  for  the 
press,  at  about  the  age  of  sixteen  years ;  and  some  of  her  arti- 
cles were  extensively  copied  and  circulated  in  various  parts  of 
America,  and  considerably  in  Europe.  Though  she  was  by  no 
means  deficient  in  prose,  either  for  elegance  of  diction,  or  force 
of  expression,  she  excelled  in  poetry.  Her  style  was  easy  and 
graceful,  while  the  flights  of  her  fancy  were  lofty  and  soaring, 
and  her  imagery  natural  and  pleasing.  The  touches  of  her 
pencil  were  generally  and  truly  original,  appropriate,  and 
beautiful. 

In  the  year  1827,  she  experienced  another  bereavement,  in 
the  death  of  her  pious  and  affectionate  grandmother.  This 
must  have  been  a  severe  shock,  to  a  mind  so  refined  and  sus- 
ceptible of  impression  as  hers.  The  decease  of  both  her  parents 
had  occurred  at  early  periods  of  her  life,  while  she  was  inca- 
pable of  appreciating  the  magnitude  of  the  deprivation  :  yet, 

as  she  advanced  to  maturcr   ago,  the   recollection   of  those   cir- 

cumstances  exhibited  to  her  mental  vision  the  loneliness  of  an 
orphan's  state  and  condition,  and  the  portraiture  had  awakened 
reflections  which  served  to  make  lasting  impressions  on  her 
memory. — But  now,  her  mind  was  alive  to  the  sorrowful  de- 
nouement of  these  mortal  visitations,  and  the  awful  conse- 
quences  of  Death's  doings.  Well  might  she  exclaim,  in  the 
language  of  one,  whose  mind  had  previously  been  familiar 
with  the  oft-repeated  havoc  of  the  inexorable  Destroyer  in  his 
family  connexion : — 

"  Insatiate  archer  !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 
Thy  shaft  flew  thrice  ;  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain." 

YOUNG. 

For  some  length  of  time  after  the  death  of  her  grandmother, 
she  resided  with  her  aunt  Ruth  Evans,  and  her  brother  Tho- 
mas Chandler,  in  Philadelphia.  Though  studiously  inclined, 
and  habitually  reserved,  she  had  selected  a  few,  among  the 
most  worthy  of  her  contemporary  female  acquaintances,  as  her 
intimate  and  confidential  friends. — With  these,  particularly 
Hannah  Townsend,  and  Anna  Coe,  of  Philadelphia,  she  spent 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  11 

a  portion  of  her  time  in  social  intercourse,  and  also  corresponded 
with  them  freely.  She  very  seldom  frequented  places  of  public 
resort,  except  the  religious  assemblies  of  the  society  of  Friends 
— of  which  she  was  a  birthright  member — and  meetings  for 
philanthropic  purposes.  She  became  a  member  of  a  Female 
anti-slavery  Society,  in  Philadelphia ;  but  did  not  take  a  very 
active  part  in  its  public  proceedings.  The  scenes  of  gayety, 
of  splendid  exhibition,  or  of  volatile  and  transient  amusement, 
had  few  attractions  for  her.  The  leisure  moments  which  a 
relaxation  from  her  studies  and  other  avocations  afforded,  were 
more  profitably,  and,  to  her,  much  more  agreeably  occupied, 
in  conversation  or  epistolary  communion  with  the  friends  of 
her  choice.  She  was  warmly  and  most  affectionately  attached 
to  her  brothers,  (especially  the  youngest,  with  whom  she 
resided,)  and  also  to  her  aunt  Ruth  Evans,  to  whom,  more  than 
any  one  else,  she  was  indebted  for  the  care  extended  towards 
her,  during  the  periods  of  infancy  and  youth.  Thus  situated, 
she  pursued  her  literary  studies — not  as  a  source  of  pecuniary 
gain,  nor  yet  of  wordly  fame — but  for  the  amusement  and 
rational  gratification  of  her  own  mind.  Her  secluded  habits 
and  persevering  resolution  (in  most  cases)  in  withholding  her 
name  from  the  public,  prevented  her  from  acquiring  that  noto- 
riety, as  an  author,  which  her  superior  talents  and  excellent 
principles  were  calculated  to  obtain  for  her. 

But  we  are,  henceforth,  to  view  her  character  and  exercises 
in  a  different  and  more  interesting  light  than  formerly.  The 
course  of  her  reading  and  study  had  never  been  confined  to 
any  one  particular  subject. — And  although  she  was  peculiarly 
fond  of  noting  the  incidents  connected  with  the  history  of  her 
native  country  ;  of  delineating  the  manners  and  customs  of  its 
aboriginal  inhabitants,  and  tracing  the  progress  of  events  re- 
lating to  the  existence,  dispersion,  or  extinction  of  their  various 
tribes ;  we  now  see  her  turning  her  attention  to  the  degraded 
and  suffering  condition  of  the  African  race,  in  America.  To 
enable  the  reader  to  form  a  correct  idea  of  the  time  and  manner 
in  which  her  mind  was  first  impressed  with  the  high  importance 
of  attending  to  this  momentous  subject,  we  copy  the  statement 
which  she  has  given  of  it  herself.  In  a  letter  to  her  friend, 
Hannah  Townsend,  at  a  subsequent  period,  she  remarks  as 
follows : 

"  In  looking  over  one  of  thy  notes,  I  observe  that  thou  men- 


12  MEMOIR    OF 

tions  having  copied  "  The  Slave  Ship"  from  my  album.*  I 
am  glad  thee  did  so,  as  that  piece,  on  some  accounts,  is  inter- 
esting to  me ;  and  was  indirectly  the  cause,  perhaps,  of  our 
present  acquaintance.  It  was  written  about  five  years  since,  and 
was  published  shortly  afterwards  in  the  "  Casket,"  having  re- 
ceived the  award  of  one  of  the  premiums  offered  by  the  editors 
of  that  work — and  mightily  indignant,  too,  I  was  at  the  time, 
that  it  was  adjudged  only  to  the  third  rank  !  and,  by  the  bye, 
though  I  have  forgotten  the  insult,  I  still  consider  it  equal  to  those 
which  were  exalted  above  it — but  that  matters  little.  It  was 
copied  into  the  "  Genius  of  Universal  Emancipation  ;"  when 
the  signature  was  recognized  by  a  friend  of  mine,  who  acquaint- 
ed the  editor  (B.  Lundy)  with  the  name  of  the  author,  and 
conveyed  me  a  request  from  him,  to  write  occasionally  for  the 
paper.  An  introduction  and  acquaintance  afterwards  followed; 
and  I  continued  to  write,  sometimes,  for  the  poetical  department^ 
"'^  until  I  was  formally  installed  into  the  editorship  of  the  "  Ladies' 
Repository" — and  our  own  friendship  has  been  the  result.  But 
I  forgot  to  commence  by  telling  thee,  that  it  was  the  first  piece 
I  ever  wrote  upon  the  subject  of  slavery — and  was,  if  my 
memory  serves  me  correctly,  the  effect  of  reading  a  sermon 
delivered  by  a  minister  of  the  society  of  Friends." 

We  have  now,  indeed,  to  commence  a  new  era  in  her  bio- 
graphy, and  introduce  her  to  the  world — not  merely  as  a  con- 
tributor to  the  popular,  yet  light  and  transient,  literature  of  the 
day — but  as  an  able  author,  and  editor ;  in  fact,  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  and  powerful  female  writers  of  her  time.  It  is 
not  enough  to  say,  that  her  productions  were  chaste,  eloquent, 
and  classical. — Her  language  was  appropriate,  her  reasoning 
clear,  her  deductions  logical,  and  her  conclusions  impressive 
and  convincing.  Her  appeals  were  tender,  persuasive,  and 
heart-reaching ;  while  the  strength  and  cogency  of  her  argu- 
ments rendered  them  incontrovertible.  She  has  given  her  own 
account  of  the  manner  in  which  her  attention  was  drawn  to 
he  great  and  important  question  of  the  abolition  of  slavery. 
We  now  proceed  to  a  review  of  her  labours  in  that  righteous 
cause,  during  the  brief  period  in  which  she  so  zealously  advo- 
cated it.  She  was  the  first  American  female  author  that  ever 

*  See  this  beautiful  article  in  the  collection  of  poetry.    It  was  written 
when  she  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  13 

made  this  subject  the  principal  theme  of  her  active  exertions : 
and  it  may  safely  be  affirmed,  without  the  least  disparagement 
to  others,  that  no  one  of  her  sex,  in  America,  has  hitherto  con- 
tributed as  much  to  the  enlightenment  of  the  public  mind,  rela- 
tive to  this  momentous  question,  as  she  has  done.  In  short,  she 
ranked  as  second  to  none,  among  the  female  philanthropists 
of  modern  times,  who  have  devoted  their  attention  to  it,  if  we 
except  the  justly  celebrated  Elizabeth  Heyrich,  of  England  : — 
and  had  her  valuable  life  been  prolonged,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  her  well-merited  fame  would  soon,  at  least,  have  rivalled 
that  of  the  distinguished  and  eminently  philanthropic  author, 
just  named. 

Her  correspondence  with  the  editor  of  the  "  Genius  of  Uni- 
versal Emancipation"  commenced  in  the  early  part  of  the  year 
1826.  Though  she  had  previously  written  the  prize  poem,  on 
the  subject  of  slavery,  as  aforesaid,  her  mind  had  not  then  been 
fully  awakened  to  the  nature  of  the  system;  neither  had  it 
been  much  occupied  in  contemplating  the  proper  means  to  be 
used  for  its  extinction.  The  articles  which  she  furnished  for 
the  pages  of  the  work,  embraced  a  variety  of  subjects  in  the 
field  of  general  and  miscellaneous  literature.  Among  the  first 
of  her  contributions,  expressly  designed  for  it,  the  pieces  entitled, 
"  The  Treaty  of  Penn,"  and  the  "  Appeal  of  the  Choctaw," 
exhibit  the  effusions  of  a  tender  and  feeling  heart,  alive  to  the 
multiplied  wrongs  and  outrages  heaped  upon  the  forest  race,  as 
well  as  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  Indian  character. 
The  articles  headed,  "  The  Wife's  Lament,"  "  Midnight,"  and 
"  The  Depths  of  the  Sea,"  were  also  among  her  earlier  com- 
munications for  the  same  work,  and  afford  specimens  of  varied 
talents  and  the  rich  stores  of  a  highly  cultivated  mind.  The 
following  lines  are  extracted  from  one  of  them,*  entitled,  "  A 
Paraphrase  of  part  of  the  Nineteenth  Chapter  of  2d  Kings." 
The  delineation  is  graphic,  and  the  strains  sublime. — 

"  The  screaming  eagle  fled  across  the  sky, 

And  left  the  scene  of  havoc  far  behind  ; 
The  crush  of  wide  spread  ruin  rose  on  high— 
But  He,  Jehovah,  was  not  in  the  wind. 

****** 

*  All  the  other  articles  here  alluded  to,  will  be  found  in  the  succeeding 
pages. 


14  MEMOIR    OF 

The  cavern  echoes  rang  a  hollow  sound, 

Or  thunder'd  back  the  crash  of  falling  rock  j 

The  valleys  rose — the  waves  forgot  their  bound- 
But  God  was  not  within  the  earthquake's  shock. 

Then  came  a  fire — the  sheeted  flames  ascend, 
And  spread  across  the  sky  a  lurid  glare; 

The  glowing  forests  in  one  ruin  blend, 

And  sink  to  nothing — but  God  was  not  there. 

Then  came  a  still  small  voice — the  whisper'd  word 
Not  even  silence  from  her  slumber  broke, 

Yet  was  distinctly  by  the  prophet  heard — 
And  in  that  voice,  the  Lord,  Jehovah,  spoke." 

As  she  now  had  an  opportunity  to  acquire  more  particular 
information  concerning  the  nature  and  tendency  of  slavery,  by 
a  perusal  of  the  facts,  &c.  inserted  in  the  periodical  work  above 
mentioned,  the  horrible  evils  of  that  system  were  gradually 
unfolded  to  her  view,  and  her  attention  was  forcibly  attracted 
to  the  subject.  The  articles  entitled,  "The  Negro  Father's 
Lament  over  the  body  of  his  Infant  Son,"  "  The  Recaptured 
Slave,"  and  "  Pharaoh,"  were  some  of  the  first  which  she  fur- 
nished upon  this  subject.  Many  others  might  be  enumerated, 
evincive  of  the  deep  sympathy  that  she  entertained  for  the  de- 
graded and  suffering  slave,  and  the  strong  desires  that  she  felt 
for  his  improvement  and  emancipation.  In  a  communication 
inserted  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  1827,  relating  to  the  question 
of  slavery,  she  presents  a  most  striking  contrast  between  the 
principles  asserted  in  the  "  Declaration  of  Independence,"  and 
the  acts  of  the  government  of  the  United  States,  in  relation  to 
the  perpetuation  of  slavery.  Few  writers  upon  this  subject,  if 
any  indeed,  have  exhibited  clearer  or  more  comprehensive  views, 
or  even  expressed  their  sentiments  in  more  appropriate  and 
forcible  terms,  than  she  has  done.  With  what  lively  emotion, 
and  patriotic  ardour,  does  she  pour  forth  the  genuine  effusions 
of  exalted  philanthropy,  in  the  following  beautiful  lines ! — 

"  My  Country !  I  behold  thee  now,  as  when 
Thy  wastes  were  trodden  but  by  savage  men ; 
When  through  thy  blooming  bowers  of  green  and  shade, 
The  Indian  only,  free,  and  fearless,  stray'd — 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  15 

And  o'er  thy  sleeping  waters  silence  hung, 

Save  when  the  screaming  wild-fowl  upwards  sprung, 

Or  when  the  light  canoe  was  launch'd,  that  bore 

The  soil's  untutor'd  lords  from  shore  to  shore ; 

When  thy  bright  bowers  in  rich  luxuriance  smiled, 

A  blooming  waste — a  paradisal  wild ; — 

But  now,  when  over  thee  I  bend  my  glance, 

And  think  how  like  a  dream  of  young  romance 

Hath  been  thy  history,  warm  feelings  start, 

And  proud  emotions  steal  around  my  heart. 

Oh !  I  do  fondly  love  thee  !  I  would  twine 

Thy  weal  and  woe  with  every  thought  of  mine, 

Rejoice  to  see  thee  crown'd  with  glory's  wreath, 

Or  cling  to  thee  in  wretchedness  and  death. 

Did  not  the  brightness  of  thy  starry  skies 

First  shed  their  splendour  on  my  infant  eyes  1 

Did  not  thy  forest's  bloom,  thy  zephyr's  blow, 

First  wake  within  my  heart  its  rapturous  glow  ? 

And  all  of  beautiful  and  fair  in  thee, 

First  lift  my  thoughts  from  earth  to  Deity ! 

Thus  have  I  felt — but  list ! — methought  a  groan — 

Some  suffering  victim's  agonizing  moan, 

Burst  on  my  ear — or  was  it  fancy's  voice? 

Is  there  one  heart  too  wretched  to  rejoice 

On  this  bright  day  ?  the  theme  of  many  a  tongue  ! 

By  many  a  bard  in  living  numbers  sung ! 

Hath  not  imagination  borne  me  back 

To  scenes  of  war,  the  charge,  the  wild  attack  ? 

No  !  't  was  indeed  the  tyrant's  lash  that  rung 

That  groan  of  anguish  from  his  victim's  tongue ! 

Oh  !  I  could  lay  me  in  the  very  dust, 

And  weep  in  sadness  o'er  the  cankering  rust 

That  sheds  its  blighting  influence  o'er  thy  fame, 

And  sinks  thee  down  to  infamy  and  shame. 

My  guilty  Country  !  these  loud  triumphs  hush, 

Think  on  this  foul  dishonouring  blot,  and  blush  ! 

Poor  injured  Afric!  Freedom  frowns  on  thee, 

In  this  bright  land,  where  all  beside  are  free. 

My  Country !  rouse  thee  from  thy  guilty  sleep, 

And  with  hot  tears  thy  sullied  honour  weep, 


16  MEMOIR    OF 

Nor  weep  alone^ — remove  the  dark  disgrace, 
That  calls  the  burning  blushes  o'er  thy  face ; 
Yet  for  the  Afric's  tears  of  blood  atone, 
And  make  him  worthy  to  be  call'd  thy  son." 

She  continued  to  write  pretty  regularly  for  the  "  Genius  of 
Universal  Emancipation,"  as  a  correspondent,  until  the  Autumn 
"of  the  year  1829.  At  the  solicitation  of  the  editor,  she  then 
consented  to  superintend  a  female  department  in  that  work. 
She  did  not  permit  her  name  to  be  generally  known  as  an  editor ; 
— yet  it  was  not  owing  to  a  want  of  moral  courage,  nor  a 
doubt  concerning  the  propriety  of  occupying  the  station,  that 
she  was  induced  to  withhold  it  from  the  public,  in  this  case. 
Her  resolution  was  purely  the  result  of  an  anxious  desire  to 
avoid  an  ostentatious  appearance,  and  to  check,  even  in  her 
own  breast,  the  slightest  dictate  of  vanity  in  looking  to  public 
notoriety.  On  commencing  the  editorial  management  of  her 
department,  as  aforesaid,  she  issued  a  brief  address  to  the  pub- 
lic, in  which  she  says, — 

"  The  subject  of  African  slavery  is  one,  which,  from  its 
very  nature,  should  be  deeply  interesting  to  every  American 
female, — for  to  which  of  the  numberless  sympathies  of  woman's 
bosom  may  not  the  slave  appeal  ?  Man  may  bring  to  the  con- 
flict moral  or  political  feelings,  or  he  may  come  forward  to 
oppose  the  demon,  clad  in  the  divine  armour  of  wide-spread 
philanthropy.  But  by  all  the  holy  charities  of  life  is  woman 
called  upon  to  lend  her  sympathy  and  her  aid  to  the  victims  of 
a  widely  extended  evil.  We  know  that  there  are  few,  we  would 
hope  none,  who  openly  advocate  the  system  of  slavery — but 
will  Christian  sisters,  and  wives,  and  mothers,  stand  coldly 
inert,  while  those  of  their  own  sex  are  daily  exposed,  not  only 
to  the  threats  and  revilings — but  to  the  very  lash  of  a  stern,  un- 
feeling task-master  1  They  cannot— they  will  not ! — they  have 
tears,  they  have  prayers,  and  in  their  eloquence  they  will  plead 
the  cause  of  the  oppressed." 

Very  shortly  afterwards  she  published  an  article  which  she 
entitled,  "  An  Appeal  to  the  Ladies  of  the  United  States."  This 
may  indeed  be  viewed  as  a  most  happy  effort,  in  awakening 
female  philanthropy.  It  is  thrilling,  persuasive,  and  convincing. 
We  here  insert  this  excellent  production  entire.  What  lady, 
possessing  a  just  sense  of  the  dignity  of  her  sex,  or  the  genu- 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  17 

ine  feelings  of  maternal  affection,  can  peruse  it  without  expe- 
riencing a  kindling  emotion  of  sorrow,  or  the  glow  of  virtuous 
indignation,  at  the  multiplied  wrongs  and  cruelties  to  which 
the  slave  is  subjected.  But  she  does  not  rest  in  merely  arous- 
ing their  sympathies.  She  points  out  clearly  the  mode  in  which 
their  influence  may  be  exercised,  in  producing  a  reformation  in 
the  community,  and  extinguishing  the  system  in  which  those 
abuses  and  mal -practices  have  their  origin  and  support. 

"  AN  APPEAL 
"  TO  THE  LADIES  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

"  It  has  been  frequently  asserted,  that,  to  the  heart  of  woman, 
the  voice  of  humanity  has  never  yet  appealed  in  vain — that 
her  ear  is  never  deaf  to  the  cry  of  suffering,  nor  her  active 
sympathies  ever  unheeded  when  called  upon,  in  behalf  of  the 
oppressed.  If  this  be  true,  then  surely  we  have  no  reason  to 
fear,  that  she  will  listen  with  cold,  careless  inattention  to  our 
appeal  for  those  who  are  among  the  outcasts  of  creation — our 
African  slave  population. 

"  It  will  be  unnecessary  to  enter  very  deeply  into  a  discus- 
sion respecting  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  case  before  us — 
for  we  presume  that  there  are  few,  especially  among  our  own 
sex,  who  will  not  readily  acknowledge  the  injustice  of  the  slave 
system.  It  is  admitted  by  the  planters  themselves, — it  must  be 
felt  by  every  thinking  mind ; — nor  is  it  an  outrage  merely 
against  the  laws  of  humanity,  but  it  is  destructive  and  ruinous, 
both  in  its  moral  and  political  effects,  alike  to  the  master  and 
to  the  victim  of  his  oppression.  We  might  bid  you  look  abroad 
over  a  large  section  of  our  country,  and  you  would  behold 
fields  lying  waste  and  uncultivated — here  and  there  a  lordly 
domain  rising  in  proud  eminence,  surrounded  by  clusters  of 
miserable  tenements,  whose  still  more  miserable  inhabitants 
are  toiling  indolently  and  unwillingly  to  feed  the  luxury  of 
their  possessor — and  we  might  bid  you  listen,  for  a  moment, 
and  you  would  hear  the  clank  of  chains,  and  the  low  deep 
groan  of  unutterable  distress,  mingling  with  the  exulting  hurras 
that  tell  of  our  country's  liberty.  We  might  tell  you  of  more 
than  this — we  might  tell  you  of  females,  ay,  females — maidens 
and  mothers,  kneeling  down  before  a  cruel  taskmaster,  while 
the  horsewhip  was  suspended  over  them,  to  plead  for  mercy — 

2* 


18  MEMOIR    OF 

for  mercy  which  was  denied  them :  but  we  do  not  wish  to 
arouse  you  to  a  sudden  burst  of  indignation,  or  we  might  tell 
you  of  far  darker  and  more  fearful  tales  than  these. — We  wish 
to  impress  you  with  a  firm,  steady  conviction  of  the  manifest 
injustice  and  pernicious  effects  attendant  on  slavery,  and  with 
a  deep  sense  of  your  own  responsibility  in  either  directly  or 
indirectly  lending  it  your  encouragement.  But  it  may  be, 
that  some  among  you  do  not  behold  this  subject  in  the  light 
in  which  we  wish  to  point  it  out  to  you.  Many  of  you  have 
been  educated  to  believe  this  system  natural  and  right — or  if 
not  right,  at  least  a  necessary  evil.  You  observe  the  dark 
countenances  of  the  slaves  lighted  up  with  smites ;  you  hear 
the  sounds  of  merriment  proceeding  from  their  cabins ;  and 
you  therefore  conclude  that  they  cannot  be  otherwise  than 
happy  ; — -'as  if  the  bitterest  things  of  earth  never  wore  a  veil 
of  brightness,  or  the  mask  of  gaiety  never  served  to  conceal 
a  bursting  heart ! — 'What!  can  the  slave  be  happy? — happy 
— "  while  the  lash  unfolds  its  torturing  coil"  above  his  head  ? 
— happy— Awhile  he  is  denied  the  blessings  of  liberty — while 
he  is  condemned  to  toil,  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  and 
year  after  year,  with  a  scanty  sustenance  for  his  only  reward 
— while  even  the  few  fragments  of  bliss  which  he  may  have 
gathered  up  are  dependant  for  their  existence  on  the  precarious 
will  of  a  tyrant  ?  Happy !  no,  never  !  He  may  mingle  rejoic- 
ingly in  scenes  of  merriment,  and  the  loud  laugh  of  unreflect- 
ing mirth  may  seem  to  burst  exultingly  from  his  lips ;  but  it 
would  be  a  profanation  of  the  name  of  happiness  to  say,  that 
her  abode  was  ever  in  the  bosom  of  the  slave.  We  appeal  to 
yourselves  to  know  what  it  is  that  forms  the  deepest  bliss  of 
your  life — and  will  you  not,  one  and  all  of  you,  answer,  that 
it  is  the  exercise  of  the  social  affections  ?- — Then  how  can  the 
slave  be  happy  !  How  may  he  garner  up  his  affections  like 
holy  things,  when  one  word  from  his  fellow-man  may  lay  the 
sanctuary  of  his  heart  all  waste,  and  bare,  and  desolate ! — 
Mother,  look  down  at  that  infant  slumbering  by  your  side ; — 
have  not  its  smiles  become,  as  it  were,  a  portion  of  your  exis- 
tence? Could  you  not  sit  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day, 
living  upon  the  innocent  expressions  of  its  confiding  affection 
— watching  the  gay  dimples  sporting  over  its  laughing  face, 
and  the  shadows  of  its  silky  curls  lying  so  beautifully  upon  its 
polished  forehead?  Look  at  that  rounded  arm,  thrown  so 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  19 

gracefully  over  its  peaceful  little  bosom  ! — and  see,  he  smiles 
in  his  slumbers  ! — -that  happy  dream  has  broken  his  rest — and 
now  his  blue  eye  is  visible  beneath  the  white  cloud  that  was 
resting  upon  it :  he  sees  the  mother,  and  his  exulting  laugh 
rings  musically  out,  and  he  springs  joyously  to  the  arms  that 
are  stretched  out  to  receive  him.  Does  not  fancy  look  forward 
to  the  time,  when  thou  shalt  behold  him  in  the  pride  of  man- 
hood, when  he  shall  be  the  soother  of  thy  griefs,  and  the 
promoter  of  thy  happiness,  and  when  his  grateful  affection 
shall  be  as  a  canopy  under  which  thou  mayst  shelter  thy  decli- 
ning years  ?.  Yet,  were  it  told  to  thee  that  just  when  he  has 
arisen  into  bold,  glad  boyhood,  when  those  beautiful  bright 
eyes  have  begun  to  kindle  with  awakening  intellect  and  early 
knowledge,  when  the  deep  feelings  of  his  heart  are  beginning 
to  gather  themselves  together,— and  reason  and  gratitude  to 
mingle  with  his  instinctive  love — >wert  thou  told,  that  then  he 
should  be  torn  from  thee,  and  borne  away  forever  into  hope- 
less, irremediable  slavery — wouldst  thou  not  rather  that  death 
should  at  once  set  his  cold  signet  upon  him,  there,  where  he 
sleeps  in  his  innocent  beauty  in  the  cradle  by  thy  side?  And 
yet  this  is  the  lot  of  hundreds — nay  of  thousands  of  human 
mothers— and  that,  too,  in  this  our  land,  which  we  so  proudly 
proclaim  to  be  the  only  free  country  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 

"  But  you  may  perhaps  argue — "  We  admit  all  the  evils  of 
which  you  so  loudly  complain  ;  we  acknowledge  that  the  system 
of  slavery  is  alike  disgraceful  and  unjust;  but  it  is  to  men,  not 
to  us,  that  you  should  appeal— to  our  statesmen,  and  to  those 
who  are  the  immediate  supporters  of  the  wrongs,  the  planters 
themselves.  We  can  only  lament  over  the  blot  on  our  country's 
fair  scutcheon,  but  our  tears  will  never  efface  it — our  power  is 
inadequate  to  the  subtracting  of  one  single  item  from  the  sum 
of  African  misery."  Believe  us,  you  deceive  yourselves.  No 
power  to  meliorate  the  horrors  of  slavery  !  American  women  ! 
your  power  is  sufficient  for  its  extinction  !  and,  oh  !  by  every 
sympathy  most  holy  to  the  breast  of  woman,  are  ye  called 
upon  for  the  exertion  of  that  potency  !  Are  ye  not  sisters,  and 
daughters,  and  wives,  and  mothers  1  and  have  ye  no  influence 
over  those  who  are  bound  to  you  by  the  closest  ties  of  relation- 
ship ?  Is  it  not  your  task  to  give  the  first  bent  to  the  minds  of 
those,  who  at  some  future  day  are  to  be  their  country's  coun- 
sellors, and  her  saviours,  or,  by  a  blind  persistence  in  a  career 
of  injustice — her  ruin  I 


20  MEMOIR    OF 

"  There  are  many,  who  endeavour  to  silence  the  upbraidings 
of  conscience,  by  persuading  themselves  that,  be  the  conse- 
quences of  slavery  what  they  may,  they  at  least  are  innocent 
of  them;  they  have  no  slaves  under  their  immediate  charge; 
and  so  they  sit  quietly  down,  and  satisfy  their  delicate  feelings 
— too  sensitively  refined  to  bear  a  description  of  the  horrors  of 
slavery — by  railing  at  those  more  directly  concerned,  and  on 
whom,  therefore,  they  choose  to  fling  the  whole  weight  of  re- 
sponsibility for  the  crime.  Now  we  assert,  that  they  all  are 
implicated,  who  are  consumers  of  the  produce  obtained  through 
the  medium  of  slave  labour ;  and  that  therefore  all,  though  not 
perhaps  in  an  equal  degree,  must  be  sharers  in  the  guilt.  Do 
you  demand,  "  What  are  we  to  do  ?  how  can  we  avoid  thus 
indirectly  becoming  supporters  of  slavery  ?  and  in  what  man- 
ner would  you  have  us  to  exert  our  influence  ?"  We  would 
have  you  exert  your  influence,  by  instilling  into  the  minds  of 
your  offspring  a  deep-felt  sense  of  their  duty  as  men  and  chris- 
tians,  to  perform  that  glorious  office  of  breaking  the  fetters  of 
the  oppressed,  which  the  prejudices  of  their  fathers  left  unac- 
complished. You  may  altogether  avoid  lending  your  support 
to  the  slave  system,  by  refusing  to  be  benefited  by  its  advan- 
tages ;  and  you  can  aid  its  extinction,  by  giving  on  every 
occasion  the  preference  to  the  products  of  free  labour.  But  you 
are  still  unpersuaded ! — You  think,  even  if  our  statement  be 
true,  that  slavery  will  never  be  abolished  by  such  means ;  and 
especially,  that  your  own  individual  sacrifices  could  have  no 
effect ;  and  to  submit  to  such  privations  would  therefore  be 
useless.  Is  a  conscience  pure  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  to  be 
considered,  then,  as  nothing  ?  Surely  not ;  nor  will  your  indi- 
vidual exertions  be  of  as  little  avail  as  you  consider  them.  There 
are  numbers,  who  have  already  ranged  themselves  under  the 
banner  of  Emancipation,  who  will  gladly  hail  any  accession 
to  their  strength.  We  do  not  require  of  you  any  painful  sac- 
rifices ;  we  do  not  wish  to  deprive  you  of  your  cherished  lux- 
uries— we  entreat  you  only,  whenever  it  may  be  in  your  power, 
to  give  the  preference  to  products  of  free  labour,  and  to  persuade 
your  friends  to  do  likewise.  Let  societies  be  formed  among 
you  to  promote  this  ;  let  the  use  of  such  articles  be  rendered 
fashionable,  and  they  will  soon  become  easily  procurable.  It 
is  true,  some  inconveniences  will  at  first  be  unavoidable ;  the 
texture  of  your  garments  will  perhaps  be  coarser  than  that  of 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  21 

your  accustomed  wear,  but  they  will  cling  less  heavily  around 
your  forms,  for  the  sighs  of  the  broken-hearted  will  not  linger 
among  their  folds.  And  who  will  dare  to  cast  one  scornful 
sneer  upon  that  garb,  which  beauty  and  fashion  have  looked 
upon  with  approving  smiles?  As  soon  as  a  sufficient  induce- 
ment  is  held  out,  free  labour  will  be  liberally  employed ;  the 
experiment  of  its  comparative  advantages  with  that  of  the  slave 
may  then  be  fairly  tried ;  and  the  slaveholders  thus  deprived  of 
what  is,  at  least  to  themselves,  one  of  their  most  forcible  argu- 
ments— that  of  the  absolute  necessity  of  maintaining  slaves. 
The  demand  for  free  products  will  become  greater  than  for 
those  of  the  other  class  :  they  may  then  be  afforded  cheaper, 
and  Emancipation  must  necessarily  follow,  for  Interest  herself 
will  then  plead  for  the  manumission  of  the  slave. 

"  Will  you,  then,  remain  sunk  in  guilty  apathy,  when  such  is 
the  glorious  guerdon  held  out  as  a  reward  for  your  exertions  1 
Will  you  let  the  groans  of  the  guiltless  sufferer  still  rise  up 
before  the  throne  of  heaven  in  accusation  against  you?  or 
will  you  not  stand  boldly  and  nobly  forth,  in  the  face  of  the 
world,  and  declare  that  American  women  will  never  be  tamely 
made  the  instruments  of  oppression  ? " 

Soon  after  she  commenced  her  editorial  labours,  she  found 
herself  engaged  in  a  controversy  with  a  lady  of  great  celebrity, 
as  an  author,  residing  in  New  England.  This  lady  had  ob- 
jected to  the  propriety  of  females  becoming  public  advocates 
of  Emancipation.  Elizabeth  reviewed  one  of  her  letters  in  a 
manner  which  displayed  her  superior  tact  and  skill  in  argument, 
as  follows : — 

"OPINIONS. 

"  We  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  consider  the  duty  of 
the  female  sex,  with  regard  to  slavery,  as  entirely  plain,  that 
we  had  almost  imagined  it  must  be  equally  so  to  any  un- 
prejudiced thinker  upon  the  subject.  Not  that  we  expected  to 
find  no  difference  of  feeling,  or  contrariety  of  sentiment; 
apathy  and  prejudices  we  were  prepared  for;  but  we  certainly 
had  not  thought  that  the  interference  of  woman  in  behalf  of 
suffering  humanity,  could  be  seriously  objected  to,  as  improper, 
and  at  variance  with  right  principles.  Yet  this  we  are  sorry  to 
find  is  the  light  in  which  it  is  regarded  by  one  of  our  own  sex 
— a  lady,  whose  talents  and  character  we  respect  very  highly, 


22  MEMOIR    OF 

and  whose  approbation  of  the  course  we  are  pursuing,  we 
should  be  proud  to  have  obtained.  But  as  this  is  withheld,  and 
it  is  probable  she  may  not  be  singular  in  her  opinions,  we  have 
taken  the  liberty  of  quoting  some  of  her  sentiments,  and  ap- 
pending to  them  a  statement  of  our  own  ideas  on  the  same 
subject. 

" '  Should  you  inquire  why  I  do  not  devote  myself  more  sedulously  to 
promote  the  cause  of  emancipation  ? — I  would  tell  you,  that  I  think  it  is 
a  work  which  requires  the  energies  of  men.' 

"  And  so  it  does ;  but  it  requires  also  the  influence  of  wo- 
man. She  was  given  to  man  '  to  be  a  helpmeet  for  him  ;'  and 
it  is  therefore  her  duty,  whenever  she  can  do  so,  to  lend  him 
her  aid  in  every  great  work  of  philanthropy.  In  this  her  co- 
operation may  be  of  essential  service,  without  leading  her  one 
step  beyond  her  own  proper  sphere.  Free  Labour,  one  of  the 
most  efficient  means  of  abolishing  slavery,  may  be  encouraged 
by  her,  even  better  than  by  men — for  it  is  her  task  to  provide 
for  the  wants  of  her  household,  and  of  course  optional  to  give 
the  preference  to  goods  of  this  class. 

"  *  It  is  a  subject  so  connected  with  those  of  government,  of  law  and 
politics,  that  I  should  fear  the  direct  or  even  apparent  interference  of  my 
own  sex,  would  be  a  departure  from  that  propriety  of  character  which 
nature,  as  well  as  society,  imposes  on  woman.' 

"  It  is  true  that  it  is  a  question  of  government  and  politics,  but 
it  also  rests  upon  the  broader  basis  of  humanity  and  justice ; 
and  it  is  on  this  ground  only,  that  we  advocate  the  interference 
of  women.  We  have  not  the  least  desire  to  see  our  own  sex 
transformed  into  a  race  of  politicians  ;  but  we  do  not  think 
that  in  this  case  such  consequences  are  in  the  least  to  be  appre- 
hended. To  plead  for  the  miserable,  to  endeavour  to  alleviate 
the  bitterness  of  their  destiny,  and  to  soften  the  stern  bosoms 
of  their  oppressors  into  gentleness  and  mercy,  can  never  be  un- 
feminine  or  unbefitting  the  delicacy  of  woman  !  She  does  not 
advocate  Emancipation  because  slavery  is  at  variance  with  the 
political  interests  of  the  state,  but  because  it  is  an  outrage 
against  humanity  and  morality  and  religion;  because  it  is 
criminal,  and  her  own  supineness  makes  her  a  sharer  in  the 
crime;  and  because  a  great  number  of  her  own  sex  are  among 
its  victims.  It  is  therefore,  that  she  should  steadily  and  con» 
scientiously  rank  among  the  number  of  its  opponents,  and  re- 
fuse  to  be  benefited  by  its  advantages.  She  does  not  by  this 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  23 

become  a  partizan  of  any  system  of  policy— she  seeks  only  to 
shield  from  outrage  all  that  is  most  holy  in  her  religion !  She 
does  not  seek  to  direct,  or  share  with  men,  the  government  of 
the  state  ;  but  she  entreats  them  to  lift  the  iron  foot  of  despot- 
ism from  the  neck  of  her  sisterhood ;  and  this  we  consider  not 
only  quite  within  the  sphere  of  her  privileges,  but  also  of  her 
positive  duties.  Yet  even  if  there  was  good  ground  for  appre- 
hension of  the  danger  alluded  to,  would  it  not  be  better  that 
women  should  lose  somewhat  of  their  dependent  and  retiring 
character,  than  that  they  should  become  selfish  and  hard- 
hearted ?  Should  our  wise  lawgivers  see  fit  to  reduce  us  to  the 
same  condition  as  our  southern  female  slaves,  would  the  dread 
of  violating  the  softness  and  propriety  of  the  female  character, 
deter  us  from  remonstrating  against  the  tyranny,  and  demand- 
ing an  immediate  restitution  of  our  rights  and  privileges  1  We 
should  scarcely  consider  such  conduct  so  unlady-like  as  to  be 
actually  placed  in  a  situation  where  the  very  name  of  refine- 
ment would  be  a  mockery,  and  compelled  to  drudge  through 
the  lowest  masculine  labours ;  and  it  is  impossible  that  it  can 
be  improper  for  us  to  solicit  for  another,  what  under  the 
same  circumstances  it  would  be  right  to  seek  for  ourselves. 
In  fact,  if  we  confine  our  views  to  the  female  slaves,  it  is  a 
restitution  of  our  own  rights  for  which  we  ask  : — their  cause  is 
our  cause — they  are  one  with  us  in  sex  and  nature — a  portion 
of  ourselves ;  and  only  deprived  by  injustice  of  the  immunities 
which  we  enjoy.  "Therefore  as  they  cannot  protect  themselves, 
it  becomes  an  imperative  duty  to  claim  for  them  the  respect 
due  to  the  female  character,  and  we  should  feel  her  indignity 
as  painfully  as  though  nature  had  placed  no  distinguishing 
mark  of  colour  between  us. 

"'The  Saviour  permitted  and  blessed  the  ministering  of  charity  by 
women ;  but  though  they  were  '  last  at  his  cross,  and  earliest  at  his  grave,' 
he  did  not  enjoin  on  them  the  necessity  of  becoming  teachers  and  reform- 
ers. He  did  not  appoint  them  to  be  apostles ;  the  burden  of  government 
in  the  church  was  not  laid  on  them ;  neither  is  it  for  them  to  direct  the 
affairs  of  state.' 

"  If  the  Saviour  not  only  permitted  but  blessed  the  exercise  of 
charity,  when  he  was  personally  among  men,  we  must  surely 
believe  that  he  would  do  so  still ;  for  his  laws  were  expressly 
given  to  extend  throughout  all  time.  What  then  is  charity  ? 
Is  it  not  to  comfort  the  afflicted— to  share  the  cup  of  our  bless- 


24  MEMOIR    OF 

ings  with  those  who  are  perishing  for  want — to  lend  our  arm 
for  a  support  to  the  maimed  ;  and  to  lead  those  who  are  groping 
in  darkness  into  the  pathway  of  God  1  It  is  for  this  that  we 
would  have  our  sex,  every  one  of  them,  zealous  advocates  of 
Emancipation ;  and  it  cannot  be  that  this  will  violate  the  cha- 
racter of  feminine  propriety  !  It  is  true  we  were  not  expressly 
required  to  become  '  teachers  and  reformers,'  but  we  were  com- 
manded  to  '  do  justly,  and  love  mercy,'  and  '  to  do  unto  others 
as  we  would  that  they,  in  like  manner,  should  do  unto  us.'  If, 
then,  men  refuse  to  abide  by  the  laws  of  God,  our  responsibility 
to  do  so  is  not  in  any  degree  lessened,  because  custom  or  even 
nature  has  made  us  subordinate  to  them. 
"  Again : 

" '  I  certainly  never  felt  this  exclusion  as  derogatory — but  the  reverse 
— that  women  were  privileged  by  having  their  duties  circumscribed  to 
the  domestic  sphere  :  it  is,  as  It  were,  removing  them  from  many  tempta- 
tions of  the  world,  and  allowing  them  more  opportunities  to  commune 
with  their  own  hearts  and  with  heaven.  Such  being  my  sentiments,  you 
will  understand  why  I  should  from  principle  as  well  as  sentiment  regard 
it  inexpedient,  if  not  dangerous,  to  awaken  the  ambition  of  my  own  sex 
with  the  idea  that  they  can  and  may  become  leaders  in  the  cause  of 
Em  ancipation.' 

"  It  is  because  we  highly  prize,  and,  we  hope,  feel  properly 
grateful  for  the  domestic  privileges  of  our  sex,  that  we  would 
have  them  extended  to  those  who  are  less  fortunate  than  our- 
selves. We  are  thankful  for  our  blessings,  but  we  would  not 
have  them  confined  exclusively  to  ourselves.  We  would  have 
the  name  of  Woman,  a  security  for  the  rights  of  the  sex. 
These  rights  are  withheld  from  the  female  slave ;  and  as  we 
value  and  would  demand  them  for  ourselves,  must  we  not  ask 
them  for  her?  She  maybe  a  mother — but  how  can  she  nurture 
up  her  offspring  in  the  fear  and  admonition  of  the  Lord,  when 
her  own  soul  is  in  darkness?  What  may  she  know  of  the  high 
and  most  holy  affections  of  life ;  of  /ilial  and  parental  piety ; 
of  sisterly  affection ;  or  of  the  sacred  refinements  of  friend- 
ship? Where  is  the  quietness  and  retirement  in  which  she  may 
'commune  with  her  own  heart  and  with  heaven?'  Is  it  when 
the  fear  of  the  whip  is  urging  her  through  the  performance  of 
her  task  ?  or  when  she  is  endeavouring  to  forget  in  the  rude 
jollity  of  the  evening  the  weariness  of  the  past  day  ?  Propriety  ! 
—surely  the  fear  of  passing  one  step  beyond  the  arena  of  domes- 
tic life  should  never  be  balanced  against  such  degradation  and 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  25 

suffering  as  is  endured  by  the  slave !  Such  being  our  opinion 
it  is  a  matter  of'  principle,  as  well  as  sentiment,'  to  endeavour 
to  awaken  our  own  sex  to  the  reflection,  that  there  are  nearly 
one  million  females,  living  under  the  same  government,  and  yet 
debarred  from  her  most  cherished  privileges.  We  would  im- 
press them  with  the  knowledge  that  they  «  can  and  may  become' 
helpers  in  the  task  of  rescuing  so  many  of  their  fellow  mor- 
tals from  a  debasing  slavery ;  and  we  would  inspire  them  with 
what  we  consider  the  laudable  '  ambition'  to  become  '  binders 
of  sheaves,  and  carriers  of  water'  to  those  of  their  brethren 
who  must  bear  the  '  heat  and  burden  of  the  day,'  in  the  field 
of  Emancipation." 

The  ability  which  she  displayed  m  conducting  her  depart- 
ment of  the  periodical  aforesaid,  may  be  learned  and  best  ap- 
preciated, by  a  reference  to  the  work  itself.  But  it  is  proper 
to  observe  that  she  did  not  confine  her  labours  to  selecting  and 
writing  for  it  as  an  editor.  Most  of  the  original  articles, 
which  appeared  in  the  "  Ladies'  Repository,"  as  the  communi- 
cations of  various  correspondents,  were  the  productions  of  her 
own  pen.  With  talents  of  a  high  order,  a  genius  versatile,  a 
mind  expansive,  she  was  disposed  to  treat  upon  a  subject  so 
transcendantly  important,  in  all  the  variety  of  forms  calculated 
to  catch  the  eye,  arouse  the  feelings,  and  enlist  the  sympathetic 
attention  of  all  classes  of  readers.  She  was,  herself,  fond  of 
promenading  the  flowery  paths  of  literature ;  and  knowing  the 
eagerness  of  many  to  peruse  the  tales  of  fancy — so  highly 
prized  in  the  literary  circles— she  occasionally  wrote  a  piece 
of  that  character  for  their  amusement  and  edification.  But 
she  always  took  especial  care  to  choose  the  subject,  and  pre- 
sent the  narration,  so  as  to  leave  a  moral  impression  on  the 
mind  of  the  reader,  favourable  to  the  cause  of  humanity.  In 
the  allegorical  style  she  was  peculiarly  happy  and  successful. 
The  following  article  will  serve  as  a  sample  of  her  excellent 
performances  in  that  style  of  composition  : — 

"THE  TEARS  OF  WOMAN. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 

"  The  Angel  of  Justice  stood  before  the  throne  of  the  Most 
High.  Father,  said  she,  behold  the  creatures  whom  thou  hast 
made.  Lo  1  the  children  of  earth  have  lifted  up  their  hearts  to 


26  MEMOIR    OF 

oppression ;  their  hands  are  full  of  wrong  and  violence,  and 
they  have  laden  their  brother  with  heavy  fetters,  that  he  might 
be  to  them  a  bondman  forever.  I  called  unto  them  ;  I  warned 
them  of  the  evil  of  their  way,  but  they  refused  to  hearken  to 
my  voice ;  give  me,  therefore,  my  sword,  oh  Father !  that  I 
may  smite  them  from  before  thy  face. 

"  Oh,  not  yet,  my  sister  !  exclaimed  the  pleading  tones  of 
a  sweet  voice : — and  the  young  Angel  of  Philanthropy  bowed 
himself  before  her,  and  looked  up  from  the  midst  of  his  fair 
curls  with  a  face  filled  with  beseeching  earnestness.  Not  yet, 
beloved  sister,  said  he,  do  thou  unsheathe  thy  sword  for  ven- 
geance. I  will  descend  to  the  earth  by  thy  side,  and  plead 
with  the  erring  one  for  his  unhappy  brother.  I  will  win  for 
thee  an  offering  of  penitence  from  the  hearts  of  the  guilty,  and 
with  thy  blade  break  asunder  the  heavy  fetters  of  the  slave. 
The  eyes  of  the  beautiful  boy  were  suffused  with  tears  while 
he  addressed  her,  and  Mercy  bent  over  him  as  he  turned  to- 
wards the  heavenly  throne,  joining  her  appealing  glance  to  his 
petition. 

**  It  was  well  nigh  to  eventime.  The  sunlight  fell  in  yellow 
gleamings  through  the  branches  on  the  gliding  waves  of  the 
stream  beside  which  the  Angel  of  Justice  stood  leaning  on  her 
empty  scabbard. — She  was  watching  with  a  calm  eye  the  eager 
and  untiring  efforts  of  Philanthropy  as  he  strove  to  free  the 
shackled  limbs  of  a  sad  group  who  wept  before  him.  He 
called  on  man  to  aid  him  in  his  exertions.  He  pointed  to  the 
threatening  attitude  of  Justice  as  she  lifted  up  her  stately  brow 
and  stretched  out  her  hand  with  a  stern  glance  towards  the 
sun,  whose  setting  was  to  be  her  signal.  But  prejudice  and 
selfishness  were  strong  in  the  human  heart ;  and  they  to  whom 
the  earnest  appeal  was  sent  gazed  on  idly  for  a  few  moments 
and  departed.  Already  the  hand  of  Justice  was  extended  to 
resume  her  blade,  and  her  eye  bent  in  lowering  anger  on  the 
impenitent  oppressor.  Yet  still  the  unwearied  boy,  with  the 
passionate  earnestness  of  approaching  despair,  steadily  persisted 
in  his  exertions,  though  at  times  his  eye  grew  dim,  and  his  heart 
sick,  as  his  repeated  entreaties  were  again  and  again  answered 
by  the  same  cold  repulse.  Then  he  called  on  woman.  He 
pointed  to  her  sister — suffering — degraded — miserable  —  and 
stretching  out  her  manacled  hands  to  her  for  succour.  The 
call  was  heard.  Slowly,  and  with  uncertain  steps,  and  eyes 


ELIZABETH    M  ARC  ABET    CHANDLER.  27 

half  averted  from  the  sad  spectacle  before  her,  woman  ap- 
proached him.  Her  heart  was  touched  with  the  wrongs  of  the 
injured  ones,  but  she  felt  that  her  arm  was  weak  and  her 
strength  powerless ;  and,  bowing  down  her  head,  she  wept  in 
pity  and  sorrow  over  the  objects  of  her  compassion.  But  her 
aid  was  not  in  vain.  The  tears  shed  rusted  the  chains  on 
which  they  fell ! — and  the  exulting  shout  of  the  young  angel, 
as  he  again  snatched  up  the  sword  of  Justice,  rung  like  a  vic- 
torious battle-cry  upon  the  ear  of  the  oppressor." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  in- 
fluence which  her  writings  had  upon  the  community  at  large ; 
but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  both  extensive  and  salu- 
tary. In  numerous  instances,  her  poetical  compositions  have 
been  used  as  hymns  in  religious  and  social  meetings  of  the 
friends  of  Universal  Emancipation.  Many  of  her  articles  on 
this  subject  were  also  copied  and  widely  circulated  in  some  of  the 
most  popular  periodical  works  of  her  time.  In  one  case,  particu- 
larly, her  efforts  (we  presume)  had  the  effect  of  enfranchising 
a  number  of  slaves  in  the  southern  country.  An  aged  widow 
lady  was  presented  with  a  file  of  the  "  Genius  of  Universal 
Emancipation,"  by  a  neighbour  who  had  subscribed  for  it. 
The  perusal  of  it  so  affected  her  mind,  that  she  immediately 
provided  for  the  unconditional  emancipation  of  her  slaves  (six 
in  number,)  by  her  will. 

Elizabeth  continued  to  reside  in  Philadelphia  until  the  sum- 
mer of  the  year  1830.  She  then  removed,  with  her  aunt  and 
brother,  to  the  Territory  of  Michigan.  They  settled  in  Lena- 
wee  County,  near  the  village  of  Tecumseh,  about  sixty  miles 
south-west  of  Detroit :  where  her  brother  purchased  land,  and 
opened  a  farm.  The  place  which  they  chose, for  their  residence 
was  pleasantly  situated  on  the  margin  of  the  river  Raisin. 
She  gave  it  the  name  of  "  Hazlebank  ;"  and  in  future  time  it 
may  properly  be  denominated  classic  ground.  The  name  of 
the  stream  flowing  beside  it,  and  that  of  the  warrior  chief,  which 
the  neighbouring  village  bears,  will  long  be  remembered  in  the 
history  of  the  country.  Here  she  sought  the  traditional  relics 
of  the  forest  race — traced  anew  the  lineaments  of  aboriginal 
character — made  further  acquisitions  in  relation  to  their  legend- 
ary lore.  From  this,  her  quiet  and  secluded  retreat,  emanated 
some  of  the  choicest  productions  of  her  pen,  that  have  been 


28  MEMOIR    OF 

submitted  to  the  eye  of  the  public.  She  had  contracted  a  fond- 
ness for  rural  life,  and  delighted  in  nature's  varied  scenery. — 
And,  though  her  present  location  was  in  a  semi-wilderness  re- 
gion, the  contiguous  settlements  were  progressing,  and  she 
spent  her  time  happily  with  her  relatives,  and  the  newly-formed 
acquaintances  with  whom  she  associated.  Notwithstanding  she 
was  now  widely  separated  from  the  most  of  those  who  had 
taken  the  deepest  interest  in  her  efforts  to  promote  the  cause 
of  philanthropy,  she  did  not  neglect  the  objects  to  which  her 
mind  had  been  so  sincerely  devoted.  She  still  attended  to  her 
editorial  duties,  as  usual — preparing  her  articles  for  the  press, 
and  forwarding  them  to"  the  office  of  the  publication  by  mail. 
Soon  after  her  change  of  residence,  a  friend  expressed  his  ap- 
prehensions that  she  might,  under  the  circumstances,  possibly 
forget  the  hapless  condition  of  the  suffering  slave.  As  a  reply 
to  this  suggestion,  she  wrote  the  beautiful  piece,  commencing 
with  the  line, — 

"  O  tell  me  not,  I  shall  forget," 

and  as  long  as  she  lived,  she  acted  in  accordance  with  the  sen- 
timents therein  expressed. 

In  order  to  acquaint  the  reader,  more  particularly,  with  her 
course  of  reading,  the  general  train  of  her  reflections,  and  the 
various  operations  of  her  mind,  we  have  obtained  the  privilege 
of  reviewing  a  portion  of  her  correspondence  with  one  of  her 
most  intimate  female  friends.  Subsequently  to  her  removal  from 
Philadelphia,  they  adopted  the  plan  of  keeping  regular  epistolary 
journals,  which  they  conveyed  to  each  other,  as  suitable  opportu- 
nities were  presented.  The  friend  with  whom  Elizabeth  thus  kept 
up  a  diurnal  correspondence,  and  to  whose  politeness  the  writer 
of  this  is  indebted  for  the  privilege  of  reviewing  it,  as  aforesaid, 
was  Hannah  T.  Longstreth,  (formerly  Hannah  Townsend,) 
of  whom  we  have  before  made  mention.  In  a  note,  accompa- 
nying the  papers  which  she  furnished  for  review,  she  observes 
as  follows : — 

"  My  intimate  acquaintance  with  Elizabeth,  previous  to  her 
removal,  and  our  regular  correspondence  afterwards,  afforded 
me  the  opportunity  of  understanding  the  bent  of  her  mind,  on 
various  subjects,  and  I  believe,  according  to  my  measure,  to 
appreciate  its  worth : — and,  as  we  came  to  an  agreement  to 
journalize,  we  were  accustomed  to  writing  without  much  formal!- 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  29 

ty ,  under  different  dates.  By  these  means,  our  pursuits,  observa- 
tions, course  of  reading,  &c.  were  known  to  each  other.  Thus, 
I  believed  my  treasure,  contained  in  this  packet  of  letters,  might 
be  valuable  to  whomsoever  might  undertake  her  biography. 
Her  original  observations  on  many  important  topics,  as  well  as 
a  variety  of  elegant  selections  to  illustrate  her  views,  I  could 
not  be  satisfied  to  bury  in  oblivion,  while  any  avenue  presented, 
properly  to  convey  them  to  the  reading  community." 

The  social  friendship  subsisting  between  these  young  ladies, 
was  truly  reciprocal ;  and  they  were,  indeed,  on  terms  of  the 
closest  intimacy.  When  about  to  leave  Philadelphia,  Elizabeth 
presented  her  friend  with  the  very  appropriate  and  charming 
piece,  entitled  "  Remember  Me,"  which  she  had  previously 
prepared.  A  short  time  after  her  arrival  in  Michigan,  she  also 
forwarded  a  brief  sketch  of  her  journey,  which  was  exceedingly 
interesting.  Many  of  the  incidents,  which  she  details  with 
minuteness,  are  amusing  and  instructive.  The  varied  scenery, 
the  manners  and  appearance  of  the  people,  &c.  in  the  different 
places  through  which  she  passed,  are  delineated  in  the  most 
happy  and  graphic  style.  Passing  over  a  considerable  part  of 
her  narration,  we  transcribe  her  observations  on  arriving  in 
view  of  the  shore  of  Michigan,  and  thence  proceeding  to  the 
place  of  her  intended  residence,  &c. : — 

"  I  sat  at  the  side  of  the  vessel,  gazing  on  the  scenery 
that  was  passing  before  me,  with  my  thoughts  divided  between 
the  land  I  had  left,  and  that  which  was  in  view,  now  reverting 
to  the  past,  and  now  dwelling  on  the  untried  future  ;  and  often, 
very  often,  resting  with  the  gathered  band  at  Cherry  Street, 
amongst  whom  I  supposed  thee  then  to  be.*  As  we  ap- 
proached Detroit,  our  Governor's  mansion  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  was  pointed  out  to  us.  It  is  merely  a  log  building  white- 
washed ;  but  the  grounds  about  it  have  quite  the  appearance 
of  a  gentleman's  residence.  Detroit  is  rather  a  dirty-looking 
place;  here  we  remained,  however,  only  one  night,  and  set 
off  early  the  next  morning  for  Tecumseh.  After  proceeding 
a  short  distance,  the  stage  suddenly  stopped,  and  the  passengers 
began,  very  orderly,  to  make  preparations  for  leaving  it.  For 
what  cause  this  was  done,  I  was  at  a  loss  to  determine,  as,  besides 

*  The  Ladies'  Anti-Slavery  Society  of  Philadelphia. 


30  MEMOIR    OF 

that  it  was  much  too  early  for  breakfast,  there  was  no  appear- 
ance of  a  house  anywhere  in  the  vicinity.  However,  we  quietly 
imitated  the  example  of  our  fellow  travellers,  and  descended 
to  terra  firma,  when  it  appeared  that  the  measure  was  one  of 
prudence,  required  by  our  approach  to  a  long  series  of  worn, 
loose,  and  uneven  logs,  denominated  a  bridge  !  and  stretching 
across  a  stream  dignified  by  the  appellation  of  the  river 
"  Rouge  !"  A  real  back-woods  bridge,  this  !  thought  I — and, 
as  I  walked  over  it,  I  perfectly  acquiesced  in  the  wisdom  of  dis- 
mounting, as  well  from  a  due  regard  to  preserving  the  flesh 
uninjured,  and  the  bones  in  their  proper  sockets,  as  from  the 
danger  of  our  weight  proving  too  great  for  the  frail  structure, 
for  such  at  least  it  seemed,  however  strong  it  might  in  reality 
be ;  at  any  rate,  I  have  not  heard  since  that  it  has  given  way, 
neither  have  any  of  the  others,  which  we  crossed  in  the  same 
manner.  This  was  no  very  favourable  augury  for  the  roads 
of  Michigan  ;  but  they  were,  in  general,  much  better  than  I 
had  expected — sometimes  rough,  but  not  dangerous  :  and,  as 
our  carriage  was  sufficiently  strong  to  bear  the  jolting  over 
logs  and  such  kind  of  rail-ways,  we  arrived  at  Tecumseh  in 
the  evening,  battered,  to  be  sure,  in  a  most  ungentle  manner, 
but  at  least  with  undamaged  bones,  by  whatever  amount  of 
sore  flesh,  reeling  of  heads,  and  excessive  weariness,  they  might 
have  been  accompanied.  It  was  so  long  since  I  had  enjoyed  a 
night  of  comfortable  sleep,  that  I  was  almost  worn  out,  and 
could  scarcely  sit  up  long  enough  to  drink  my  tea :  yet  when 
I  lay  down,  the  motion  of  the  boat  (of  which  I  still  retained 
the  feeling  as  when  actually  on  board,)  interfered  sadly  with 
my  rest  and  my  dreams,  and  caused  me  to  pass  the  night  with 
almost  as  much  discomfort,  as  if  actually  tempest-tost.  On  the 
next  First-day,  we  attended  Meeting.  The  road  wound 
through  quiet  and  beautiful  openings,  dotted  occasionally  with 
log  dwellings,  and  small  spots  of  improved  land ;  but  for  the 
most  part,  still  remaining  in  their  own  native  loveliness, 
crowned  with  scattered  trees,  now  gathered  into  picturesque 
clumps,  leaving  a  clear  space  open  to  the  sun-light,  then  spread 
out  into  an  almost  regular  grove,  and  sometimes  giving  place 
entirely  to  a  small  stretch  of  bright  green  prairie,  contrasting 
finely  with  the  rich  sunlight  tint  of  the  sod  on  the  openings, 
which  seemed  coloured,  as  well  as  covered,  by  a  profusion  of 
wild-flowers  and  yellow  "  braken."  Yet  beautiful  as  they  are, 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  31 

one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  these  "  openings"  is  their  perfect 
tranquillity.  Oh,  how  I  wish  thee  could  breathe  with  me,  if  it 
were  only  for  one  short  half  hour,  the  exquisite,  the  religious 
quietness  of  these  solitary  places  ! — I  never  elsewhere  felt  such  a 
stillness.  There  are  varieties  even  of  silence,  and  I  dare  say 
thou  hast  felt  it  so.  Contrast  the  hush  of  a  starry  midnight, 
with  that  of  a  moon-lit  evening,  or  of  one  of  our  religious  meet- 
ings, or  of  an  open  field, — and  they  have  each  their  own  pecu- 
liar character. — But  the  stillness  I  speak  of  is  like  none  of 
these — and  must  be  felt  in  order  to  be  understood.  It  was  in- 
deed almost  the  only  thing  I  did  feel,  in  attempting  to  describe 
the  scenery  around  me,  for  some  time  after  leaving  Philadel- 
phia. There  were  many  scenes  that  I  saw  were  beautiful — 
most  beautiful — grand,  picturesque,  or  magnificent — and  I  gave 
them  my  admiration  and  my  praise ;  but  that  was  all,  or  nearly 
all  the  sensation  they  could  awaken.  There  were  some  spots 
on  our  route  that  did,  indeed,  almost  arouse  a  portion  of  my 
former  enthusiasm ;  but  it  is  of  what  I  have  witnessed  since 
our  arrival  in  Michigan,  that  I  have  spoken  most  particularly." 

When  she  found  herself,  in  a  manner,  comfortably  situated 
in  her  new  home  at  "  Hazlebank,"  with  her  dearly  beloved  re- 
latives, she  recommenced  her  Journal  of  Correspondence,  as 
before-mentioned, — sundry  extracts  from  which  we  now  give, 
without  reference  to  the  order  of  time  when  they  were  written. 
In  the  outset,  however,  she  says  : — 

"I  cannot,  with  my  numerous  occupations,  promise  to  be 
daily  regular  in  the  use  of  my  pen ;  but  when  I  can  snatch  a 
few  moments  of  leisure,  I  will  sketch  an  occasional  outline  of 
my  pursuits,  occupations,  and  the  current  of  my  thoughts.  I 
have  been  to-day  thinking  much  of  the  past  year.  It  has  been, 
to  me,  not  an  uneventful  one ;  and  with  the  memory  of  a  more 
than  usual  amount  of  painful  hours,  has  left  me  still  some 
pleasing  remembrances  : — among  the  latter,  I  consider  the 
formation  of  our  friendship;  and  though  the  separation  has 
broken  in  somewhat  rudely  upon  its  newly  formed  links,  I 
think  we  shall  find  them  elastic  enough  to  stretch  over  the  in- 
tervening distance." 

She  proceeds : — 

"  I  have  been  looking  over  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  by 
Samuel  Rogers.— Hast  thou  read  it?  Some  passages  in  it 


32  MEMOIR    OF 

have  recalled  very  forcibly  one  or  two  of  our  conversations 
especially  that  one  to  which  thee  alludes  in  thy  letter.  The 
Poet  is  supposed  to  be  wandering,  at  the  twilight  hour,  among 
the  scenes  of  his  youth,  from  which  he  had  long  been  separated. 
The  voice  of  the  church-clock  summons  him  to  the  graveyard, — 

"  To  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  time  may  soon  efface : 

*  *  *  * 

"  Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush  !  while  here,  alone, 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life  !  instructors  of  my  youth ! 
Who  first  unveil'd  the  hallow'd  form  of  truth ; 
Whose  every  word  enlighten'd  and  endear'd ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered  ; 
In  friendship's  silent  register  ye  live, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give" 

The  last  line,  it  is  true,  is  decidedly  in  thy  favour ;  but  the  sum 
of  the  argument  is,  I  think,  in  mine.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
record,  on  "  each  mouldering  stone,"  what  would  the  place 
have  been  to  his  affections,  in  comparison  with  what  it  then  was? 
True,  he  might  have  visited  there ;  have  gazed  upon  it,  as  the 
last  dwelling-place  of  many  whom  he  loved ;  but  he  would 
moralize  rather  than  feel,  or  if  he  did  feel  strongly,  there  would 
be  a  painful  sense  of  bereavement  and  loneliness  pressing  upon 
his  heart — a  sudden  thought  of  the  utter  undistinguishingness 
of  the  grave,  very  different  from  the  burst  of  affectionate  emo- 
tion with  which  he  would  bend  over  the  last  couch  of  each  re- 
membered sleeper — their  words  of  love,  their  lessons  of  wisdom 
— never  more  impressively  felt  than  now — all  the  hours  spent 
in  their  presence,  in  happiness  or  grief,  and  the  glances  that 
even  now  rise  up  before  the  memory  with  a  vividness  and  al- 
most trembling  reality.  Even  while  he  clung,  it  might  be  with 
almost  an  erring  passionateness  of  affection,  to  that  sod  which 
spread  its  green  covering  over  the  form  of  the  beloved  one,  he 
would  feel  the  deadness,  the  apathy  of  resignation — if  I  may 
so  express  it — passing  away  from  his  heart,  and  giving  place 
to  kindling  hopes  and  virtuous  resolutions.  He  might  indeed 
weep,  but  the  tears  which  he  shed  would  be  such  as  heal  and 
purify  the  heart ; — drops  of  happiness  and  love,  rather  than  of 
grief.  A  showy  and  expensive  monument  would,  I  think,  have 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  33 

the  same  effect,  or  nearly  so,  as  not  any.  There  is  something 
about  it  cold  and  repelling  to  the  feelings.  The  marble  seems 
effectually  to  shut  the  beloved  object  from  your  embraces — it 
adds  chillingness  and  gloom  even  to  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 
Why  should  you  seek  to  lay  your  cheek  against  it — to  water  it 
with  your  tears,  or  to  circle  it  with  your  embraces  ?  The  form 
of  the  lost  one  is  not  there — that  has  no  part  with  the  buried 
dust — it  is  the  barrier  which  still  more  widely  separates  you 
from  the  form  you  loved.  The  associations,  too,  which  are 
connected  with  it,  are  full  of  dreariness  and  disgust.  The  proud 
monument,  with  all  its  grace  and  beauty,  cannot  conceal  from 
the  mind's  eye  the  loathsomeness  beneath  it — no  indeed — no 
vain  mockery  of  ornament  for  the  grave !  You  shudder  at  the 
revolting  contrast  of  its  secret  chambers.  The  exhibition  of 
decaying  mortality  is  brought  too  forcibly  before  the  mind — the 
thought  of  death  is  filled  with  fresh  images  of  terror,  and  resig- 
nation is  again  converted  into  grief.  The  still  green  mound, 
over  which  the  sunlight  plays,  and  the  breeze  revels  in  glad- 
ness, distinguished  from  its  fellows  only  by  the  name  of  the 
sleeper  who  lies  below,  carved  upon  the  white  head-stone — this 
is  associated  with  no  such  images  of  gloominess — the  bright 
flower  that  waves  there  is  like  a  portion  of  the  cherished  dust — 
the  heart  is  soothed  by  the  sweet  influences  of  nature,  and  looks 
forward  with  a  fresher  hope  to  another  meeting — they  leave  the 
present  dreariness  of  death,  to  revert  to  all  the  happy  past,  and 
to  recall  all  the  counsels  of  the  silent  sleeper.  If  it  be  a  stran- 
ger only  who  is  wandering  among  these  memorials  of  death, 
every  tablet  is  an  open  leaf  offering  fit  subjects  for  meditation. 
If  the  grave  beside  which  we  stand,  be  that  of  one  of  the  earth's 
"  master-spirits" — one  upon  whose  words  we  still  hang  with 
enthusiastic  admiration,  and  whose  memory  we  cherish  with 
affectionate  devotion,  where  is  the  heart  that  will  not  catch 
from  the  inhumed  ashes  some  kindling  of  virtuous  emulation, 
or  turn  its  glance  anxiously  inward  to  the  inspection  of  its  own 
character?  Thou  wilt  say,  perhaps,  Could  we  not  elsewhere 
meditate  the  same  upon  his  virtues  and  the  lessons  that  he  has 
given  to  the  world  ?  Undoubtedly  we  could.  But  the  mind  is 
not  always  in  a  fitting  mood  for  instruction — there  the  secret 
springs  of  thought  and  feeling  are  touched,  and  all  their  secret 
chambers  lie  open.  "  Our  thoughts,"  says  Rogers,  "  are 
linked  by  many  a  hidden  chain"— T- 

M  Awake  but  one,  and  lo !  what  myriads  rise  !" 


34  MEMOIR    OF 

But  I  have  already  said  enough,  perhaps  too  much,  upon  the 
subject — and  after  all,  I  can  give  only  my  own  feelings  respect- 
ing it.  Yet  I  know  how  much  we  are  the  creatures  of  circum- 
stances— how  much  our  opinions  and  our  actions  are  controlled 
by  strong  mental  associations.  An  Italian  author  is  said  on  the 
grave  of  Virgil  to  have  resolved  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  muses. 
When  Clarkson  dies,  will  not  the  young  philanthropist  who 
stands  by  his  grave,  feel  his  pulse  beat  with  a  higher  and  firmer 
resolution  to  follow  in  his  steps  ?" 

Speaking  of  the  dying  sayings  of  Rousseau,  as  mentioned  by 
Whittier,  in  his  review  of  the  last  illness  of  that  celebrated 
philosopher,  she  very  briefly  remarks  : — 

"  It  seems  indeed  difficult  with  many  to  imagine  how  the 
death-bed  of  an  infidel  could  be  one  of  serenity.  But  the  mind 
of  Rousseau  was  probably  so  worn  out  by  continual  and  intense 
excitement,  that  it  could  not  be  easily  aroused  into  vivid  feeling 
of  any  kind.  A  high  fever  is  usually  succeeded  by  utter  de- 
bility and  languor ;  and  the  apparent  calmness  which  he  exhi- 
bited, may  perhaps  only  have  been  the  effect  of  apathy  and 
mental  exhaustion." 

In  quoting  some  of  the  beautiful  and  sentimental  effusions 
of  Mrs.  Hemans,  relative  to  the  imminent  perils  to  which  those 
engaged  in  the  pearl-fishery  are  subjected,  she  makes  these 
few  but  appropriate  comments  : — 

"  How  few  calculate  the  cost  of  their  ornaments  at  more 
than  the  coin  which  they  have  paid  for  them  !  A  serious  esti- 
mate of  the  effect  which  they  have  upon  the  happiness  of  others, 
would  be,  I  think,  the  best  means  of  checking  an  undue  fond- 
ness for  them.  Who  would  wish  to  wear  pearls  with  the 
thought  continually  before  their  minds,  that  their  "  pale  quiver- 
ing ray"  had  perhaps  been  purchased  at  the  expense  of  the  life 
of  a  fellow  creature  ? — Would  it  not  seem  as  though  the  gleam 
had  been  caught  from  the  expiring  glance  of  the  victim,  and 
perpetuated  there  to  turn  on  them  with  a  keen  upbraiding  ?" 

It  is  said  that,  to  be  a  poet,  a  person  must  be  naturally 
fond  of  music.  To  a  casual  remark  of  her  friend,  in  relation 
to  this  subject,  Elizabeth  replies  thus  : — 

"  I  had  been  thinking  of  what  were  thy  sentiments  on  this 
subject,  only  a  few  hours  before  reading  the  above  sentence. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  35 

They  coincide  very  nearly  with  my  own  ; — though  had  I  an 
ear,  as  it  is  called,  for  music,  I  believe  I  should  be  more  fond 
of  it.  I  would  allow  it  the  same  license  that  I  think  can  pro- 
perly be  given  to  poetry,  but  nothing  further.  When  it  comes 
with  a  purifying  influence  over  the  heart,  calming  the  turbulence 
of  its  passions,  cooling  the  flow  of  its  vain  desires  and  emotions, 
erasing  with  a  soft  touch  some  line  of  folly  or  care,  and  bear- 
ing the  thoughts  on  its  wing  to  a  better  and  purer  atmosphere, 
— then,  by  whatever  name  the  strains  may  be  called,  the  en- 
joyment or  the  practice  of  music  is,  I  think,  not  culpable.  The 
further  it  swerves  from  this,  the  more  it  is  liable  to,  if  it  does 
not  always  degenerate  into,  an  abuse  of  the  gift." 

She  alludes  in  a  most  feeling  manner  to  the  untimely  death 
of  Lucretia  M.  Davidson,  a  young  lady  of  rare  poetical  genius, 
and  of  high  promise,  as  follows  : — 

" — *— Young,  amiable,  and  so  highly  gifted  with  intellectual 
brightness, — it  is  almost  painful  to  write  the  name  of  death  be- 
side that  of  so  rare  a  blossom.  She  died  of  a  poetical  malady, 
consumption,  and  while  the  poetry  of  life  was  yet  thrilling  de- 
liciously  round  her  heart.  I  think  of  her  with  sadness,yet  I  cannot 
lament ;  and  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  hers  was  a  singu- 
larly happy  fate.  Had  she  lived,  she  might,  it  is  true,  have 
devoted  her  talents  to  the  cause  of  religion  and  virtue.  She 
might  have  added  a  worthy  tribute  to  the  stores  of  our  country's 
literature,  and  gathered  to  her  pages  bright  gems  of  thought, 
and  treasures  of  intellectual  wealth — or  she  might  have  forgot- 
ten the  high  gift  entrusted  to  her  charge,  or  wasted  it  unworthily 
— or  she  might,  a  few  years  later,  have  gone  down  to  the 
grave,  with  her  heart's  core  scorched  to  ashes  by  the  fever  of 
disappointed  hopes  and  the  inward  burning  of  her  own  spirit. 
The  unmasking  of  the  world  to  a  highly  sensitive  and  imagina- 
tive mind,  is  not  without  danger.  But  Lucretia  escaped  this. 
She  died  at  sixteen,  or  earlier,  and  she  had  all  the  brightness, 
all  the  enjoyments  of  genius,  without  its  bitterness — she  has 
won  a  meed  of  early  praise,  and  sleeps — not  unforgotten.' 
Briefly  adverting  to  her  reading,  she  states  : — 
"  I  have  been  reading  '  No  Cross,  No  Crown,'  for  the  first 
time  quite  lately,  and  have  been  very  much  pleased  with  it.  I 
think  William  Penn  characterized  it  rightly,  when  he  recom- 
mended it  to  his  children  as  possessing  *  true  wisdom.'  It  is 


36  MEMOIR    OF 

full  of  excellent  advice,  and  a  practical  work,  which  I  like 
much  better  than  a  doctrinal  one.  I  have  seldom  read  a  work 
of  the  kind  with  more  satisfaction,  or  one  by  which  the  con- 
duct could  be  better  regulated. 

"  I  have  also  been  looking  through  the  Memoir  of  Mrs.  Jud» 
son,  the  first  female  missionary  to  the  Burman  empire.  Some 
parts,  descriptive  of  the  character  and  manners  of  the  Burmans, 
are  very  interesting,  as  is  also  a  narrative  of  their  situation 
during  an  invasion  of  the  English.  Probably  thou  dost  not 
feel  as  much  interested  in  these  matters  as  some  others ;  but  I 
am  sure  thee  will  respond  to  the  wish  that  arose  with  me  as  I 
was  reading  of  this  female's  zeal  and  sacrifices  in  that  cause, 
— that  even  one-half  as  much  energy  were  displayed  in  loosen- 
ing the  fetters  of  our  poor  slaves,  and  in  giving  them  the  bene- 
fits of  education. 

"  At  present  I  am  reading  Russell's  History  of  Modern  Eu- 
rope, a  very  interesting  work,  commencing  with  the  fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire. 

"I  do  not  doubt  that  C.Beecher's  work  on  education,  would 
be  interesting,  for  Mental  Philosophy,  of  which  I  consider  that 
a  branch,  and  a  very  important  one,  is  a  science  in  which  I 
take  great  delight,  though  I  have  had  but  little  opportunity  of 
indulging  my  fondness  for  it.  I  have  lately  read  a  little  work 
of  Reid's,  on  the  Mind,  but  which  enters  into  little  more  than 
the  alphabet  of  the  science.  I  intend  to  get  Locke's  Essays  as 
soon  as  I  can,  and  should  dearly  like,  were  it  in  my  power,  to 
go  through  a  regular  course  of  reading  on  the  subject.  It  may 
be  compared  to  lifting  the  veil  of  another  fresh  and  beautiful 
world,  or  to  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  new  creation,  to  be  per- 
mitted to  gaze  in  among  the  hidden  feelings,  the  fine  and  deli- 
cate perceptions,  and  the  unveiled  mysteries  of  the  human  mind. 
It  is  like  being  endowed  with  a  new  intellect,  or  gifted  suddenly 
with  another  sense.  Such  are  probably  the  feelings,  on  the 
first  illuminings  of  every  science  which  is  pursued  with  earnest- 
ness, but  with  this  branch  of  knowledge,  it  appears  to  me  par- 
ticularly so." 

The  following  remarks  will  show  the  humble  estimate  which 
she  made  of  the  powers  of  her  own  mind,  and  the  ideas  she 
entertained  with  respect  to  wordly  fame.  So  far  did  she  carry 
the  restriction  of  the  ambitious  aspirations  of  her  heart,  that  it 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  37 

is  to  be  doubted  whether  she  was  really  conscious  either  of  the 
excellency  of  her  own  example,  the  scope  and  strength  of  her 
intellectual  capacity,  or  the  title  she  had  fairly  acquired  to  the 
meed  of  virtuous  renown.-^-She  replies  to  the  suggestion,  that 
she  might  possibly  feel  too  much  humbled  at  the  view  of  the 
weakness  and  imperfections  of  her  own  nature. — 

"  I  reply  in  the  words  of  a  noted  author,  with  whose  senti- 
ments thou  art  probably  familiar  : — '  I  will  not  hypocritically 
accuse  myself  of  offences  which  I  have  no  temptation  to  com- 
mit,  and  from  the  commission  of  which  motives  inferior  to  reli- 
gion would  preserve  me.  But  I  am  continually  humbled  in 
detecting  mixed  motives  in  almost  all  I  do.  Such  struggling 
of  pride  in  my  endeavours  after  humility — such  irresolution  in 
my  firmest  purposes — so  much  imperfection  in  my  best  actions 
— such  fresh  shoots  of  selfishness  where  I  hoped  the  plant  it- 
self was  eradicated — such  frequent  deadness  of  duty — such 
infirmity  of  will — such  proneness  to  earth  in  my  highest  aspi- 
rations after  heaven.' — And  I  may  add  to  these,  so  much  dark- 
ness, so  much  ignorance,  so  great  a  disproportion  between  my 
wishes  and  my  actions,  so  many  of  the  rank  weeds  of  preju- 
dice often  very  unexpectedly  discovered  in  my  own  mind,  and 
the  fear  of  still  greater  evils  lurking  undiscovered  there,  that 
I  sometimes  forget,  almost,  that  there  must  be  some  light  to 
render  the  darkness  visible.  Whether  it  is  that  formed  by  na- 
ture to  find  a  happiness  in  the  presence  of  all  natural  and  men- 
tal beauty,  and  admiring  mental  and  moral  excellence  as  of  the 
highest  order,  to  an  almost  enthusiastic  excess,  I  feel  more 
painfully  the  weakness  and  errors  of  my  own  mind,  I  know 
not : — but  this  I  do  know, — that  when  I  look  upon  the  imper- 
fections within — when  I  think  of  my  oft-repeated  resolutions 
frittered  away  into  nothing — of  the  moments  and  hours  wasted 
upon  trifles,  or  in  sloth  or  profitless  musings — of  the  risings 
of  irritation  or  impatience  in  a  temper  which  I  hoped  was  bet- 
ter disciplined — and  all  the  long  et  ceteras  of  human  weakness 
— there  is  reproach  and  mortifications  in  the  retrospect.  I 
would  wish  myself  and  all  others  to  reach  the  highest  point 
of  excellence  that  God  has  created  human  nature  capable  of 
attaining ;  and  it  is  this  which  I  feel  myself  fallen  so  far  short 
of.  Error  and  darkness  wherever  I  discover  them,  whether  in 
my  own  mind  or  those  of  others,  are  always  painful  to  me,  and 


38  MEMOIR    OF 

always  excite  the  desire  to  have  them  eradicated.  I  earnestly 
wish  to  be  useful  to  my  fellow  creatures,  but  I  am  conscious 
that  I  can  be  so  only  in  proportion  as  my  own  mind  is  enlight- 
ened and  elevated.— Oh !  how  often  have  I  felt  the  truth  of  those 
beautiful  lines  of  Miss  Landon's — — 

"  » We  make 

A  ladder  of  our  thoughts,  where  angels  step, 
But  sleep  ourselves  at  the  foot.' 

"Point  out  to  me  whatever  appears  incorrect  in  these  senti- 
ments. I  do  not  agree  with  Dr.  Young,  that  *  things  unseen 
do  not  deceive  us.'  On  the  contrary,  it  is  undetected  errors 
that  I  am  most  afraid  of. 

"  And  now  for  another  part  of  thy  letter. — What  do  I  think 
of  Fame? — I  will  again  answer  thee  with  a  quotation,  which 
for  the  sentiment  it  contains  is  often  in  my  thoughts : — 

"'Happy — happier  far  than  thou 
With  the  laurel  on  thy  brow, 
She  who  makes  the  humblest  hearth 
Lovely  but  to  one  on  earth.' 

"  Yet  I  do  not  profess  to  be  totally  careless  of  literary  dis- 
tinction, though  I  am  more  so  than  I  have  heretofore  been,  and 
that  certainly  forms,  if  I  know  myself,  no  part  of  my  motives 
in  advocating  the  cause  of  Emancipation.  On  the  contrary, 
my  interest  in  that  cause  is  the  master  feeling  which  I  be- 
lieve has  done  more  than  any  thing  else  in  chasing  away  the 
other.  As  the  one  advances,  the  other  declines.  By  literary 
distinction,  as  mentioned  above,  I  mean  only  the  general  ap- 
proval of  what  is  in  itself  good,  and  calculated  for  usefulness. 
Indiscriminate  praise  is  altogether  worthless ;  deserved  praise 
may  be  pleasant,  when  it  is  on  account  of  benefit  that  has 
been  imparted  to  others,  but  it  is  not  to  be  sought  after,  nor 
earnestly  desired,  and  should  never  be  made  an  object  of 
pursuit." 

On  the  subject  of  slavery  she  was  very  frank  and  commu- 
nicative in  her  correspondence.  But  as  her  sentiments  relating 
to  this  topic  have  been  extensively  published,  a  few  short  ex- 
tracts must  at  present  suffice.  We  have  before  mentioned  that 
she  was  a  member  of  a  Female  Anti-Slavery  Society  for  some 


MARGARET    ELIZABETH    CHANDLER.  39 

length  of  time,  during  her  residence  in  Philadelphia.  Although 
she  did  not,  in  consequence  of  her  retired  habits,  take  a  very 
active  part  in  its  public  proceedings,  she  felt  a  deep  and  lively 
interest  in  its  success,  as  will  more  fully  appear  from  what  fol- 
lows. At  various  times  she  expressed  her  desires  for  the  pros- 
perity of  the  institution,  as  well  as  for  the  advancement  of  the 
cause  generally,  in  the  most  feeling  terms.  Soon  after  her 
arrival  in  Michigan,  she  writes  thus : — 

"  Oh,  how  often  I  wish  I  might  be  with  you  in  your  gather- 
ings !  not  because  I  think  I  could  be  of  much  service,  for  there 
are  many  and  far  more  useful  members  than  myself  to  attend 
to  the  business,  but  it  is  natural  to  wish  to  participate  in  what 
we  feel  interested  about.  Still,  I  will  not  be  discouraged,  if 
you  will  hold  on  to  your  principles,  and  persevere  in  your 
efforts.  Though  you  may  not  seem  to  do  much  for  a  while, 
I  think  you  will  have  a  revival  after  a  time  and  plenty  of  busi- 
ness on  your  hands.  I  feel  exceedingly  interested  for  this 
society,  and  cannot  ever  think,  without  pain,  of  its  sinking  into 
inertness.  But  do  not  think  that  I  fear  for  it,  my  dear  friend, 
though  I  say  to  thee,  persevere  in  spite  of  discouragement,  in 
spite  of  the  coldness  and  apathy  of  others,  or  even  of  the  fal- 
tering of  thy  own  heart.  For  there  is  enough,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, to  make  the  heart  of  any  one  falter  sometimes,  when 
looking  at  all  the  various  difficulties  that  are  to  be  overcome 
before  our  object  can  be  attained ;  but  our  cause  is  a  righteous 
one,  and  worth  every  effort.  There  are  times  when  I  feel  as 
if  I  could  go  unflinching  to  the  stake  or  the  rack,  if  I  might 
by  that  means  advance  it.  I  never  expected  to  do  *  great 
things'  in  this  cause — I  have  never  indulged  in  speculations  as 
to  the  effect  of  what  I  attempted  to  do,  yet  I  sometimes  feel 
as  if  I  had  been  a  mere  idle  dreamer,  as  if  I  had  wasted  my 
time  in  nothingness — so  disproportioned  does  the  magnitude  of 
the  cause  appear  to  all  that  I  have  done ;  so  like  a  drop  in  the 
ocean  are  my  puny  efforts.  I  am  not  discouraged  by  these 
feelings,  because  I  hope  that  I  have  been,  and  still  may  be,  in 
some  degree,  useful ;  but  I  much  oftener  feel  disposed  to  cen- 
sure myself  for  want  of  sufficient  exertion  and  interest,  than 
to  indulge  in  self-complacency. 


40  MEMOIR    OF 

"  We  have  had  several  meetings,  and  have  succeeded  in  es- 
tablishing an  association  here,  which  we  call  '  The  Logan 
Female  Anti-Slavery  Society.'  Our  members  are  as  yet  few, 
but  an  interest  in  the  subject  appears  to  increase  through  the 
neighbourhood ;  and  if  we  can  keep  « afloat]  I  hope  it  may 
in  time  be  a  means  of  usefulness.  B.  L.  was  so  good  as  to 
share  with  me  the  anti-slavery  articles  he  received  from 
England,  and  I  almost  always  display  them  when  an  opportu- 
nity offers,  and  I  believe  they  have,  in  every  instance,  been 
viewed  with  interest ;  and  when  other  free-labour  articles  are 
alluded  to,  which  generally  follows  in  course,  the  wish  has 
usually  been  expressed  that  more  of  them  were  procurable. 
The  Free-Produce  concern  is  also,  I  am  informed,  spreading 
very  extensively  in  some  of  the  western  parts  of  New-York." 
****** 

"Our  cause,  my  dear  H.,  the  abolition  of  American  Slavery, 
is  I  believe  advancing  full  as  fast  as  may  be  expected,  though 
it  has  never,  I  think,  excited  more  opposition — but  this,  though 
certainly  not  pleasant,  in  my  opinion  will  rather  advance  than 
retard  the  cause,  and  if  its  friends  are  but  faithful,  it  must  tri- 
umph. And  surely  a  more  important  cause  has  never  called 
upon  the  energies  of  the  nation.  I  think  a  large  portion  of 
the  rising  talents  of  our  country,  is  taking  a  decided  stand  in 
its  favour,  and  it  will  call  forth  talents  that  otherwise  might 
have  slept.  Terrible  in  crime  and  magnitude  as  the  slavery 
of  our  country  is,  I  do  not  yet  despair — apathy  must — will 
awaken,  and  opposition  die — the  cause  of  justice  must  triumph, 
or  our  country  must  be  ruined." 

We  shall  now  terminate  our  review  of  her  interesting  and 
valuable  labours,  and  proceed  to  notice  the  closing  scene  of  her 
brief,  yet  exemplary  and  brilliant  career  of  life.  The  task  is 
indeed  painful,  for  among  the  thousands  whose  momentary 
appearance  and  speedy  exit  from  the  stage  of  human  existence 
is  recognized  by  the  eye  of  virtuous  discrimination,  a  case  sel- 
dom occurs  which  more  imperatively  calls  for  the  expression 
of  sorrow  and  regret  than  the  present.  This  most  amiable  and 
devoted  female  philanthropist,  was  summoned  from  works  to 
everlasting  rewards  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  and  in  the  midst 
of  her  usefulness.  Her  intellectual  faculties  were  but  just 
fairly  developed  ;  the  ample  powers  of  her  mind  were  merely 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  41 

beginning  to  expand ;  and  the  influence  of  her  excellent  prin- 
ciples and  noble  efforts  in  the  cause  of  philanthropy  was  only 
in  the  commencement  of  its  extended  operations.  How  often 
thus  are  buds  of  finest  promise  nipt  by  the  untimely  frost — 
the  fairest  and  most  delicious  flowers  withered  in  their  open- 
ing bloom — the  brightest  rays  of  genius  and  moral  excellence 
extinguished  in  their  morning  prime !  Indeed,  how  changeful 
and  evanescent  are  all  terrestrial  scenes !  How  extremely 
uncertain  is  our  hold  on  time ! 

"  Each  moment  has  its  sickle,  emulous 
Of  Time's  enormous  scythe,  whose  ample  sweep 
Strikes  empires  from  the  root ;  each  moment  plays 
His  little  weapon  in  the  narrow  sphere 
Of  sweet  domestic  comfort,  and  cuts  down 
The  fairest  bloom  of  sublunary  bliss." 

YOUNG. 

In  the  spring  of  1834,  she  was  attacked  by  a  remittent  fever, 
which  continued  to  prey  upon  her  constitution  for  a  period  of 
several  months,  before  she  was  entirely  confined  to  her  cham- 
ber. The  disorder  increased  so  gradually,  that  strong  hopes 
of  her  recovery  were  entertained,  both  by  herself  and  her 
friends,  until  very  near  the  close  of  her  life.  But  these  hopes 
at  length  were  blasted.  The  inexorable  Destroyer  had  com- 
menced his  certain  work — human  aid  was  vain — human  science 
and  skill  were  powerless — and  her  delicate  form  wasted  away 
by  slow  degrees.  During  the  whole  period  of  her  protracted 
affliction  she  manifested  an  uninterrupted  tranquillity  of  mind, 
a  firm  reliance  on  the  truths  of  Divine  revelation,  and  a  perfect 
resignation  to  the  will  of  her  Heavenly  Master.  The  following 
remarks  on  the  subject  of  her  last  illness  and  final  departure, 
are  extracted  from  a  letter  written  soon  afterwards  by  her  aunt, 
for  the  information  of  her  sister  in  Philadelphia : — 

"  Thou  canst,  my  dear  sister,  sympathise  and  deeply  feel 
with  me,  in  my  sore  affliction ;  but  thou  canst  not  know  the 
full  extent  of  my  loss.  She  was  my  heart's  delight — she  was 
my  earthly  treasure.  She  was  all  goodness — all  excellence — 
too  sweet  and  too  lovely  to  consign  to  the  cold  and  silent  grave. 
Oh !  how  I  have  wished  that  thou  couldst  have  been  with  her 
through  her  protracted  illness,  and  seen  what  a  perfect  pattern 

4* 


42  MEMOIR    OF 

of  patience  she  was.  Never  shall  I  forget  her  sweet  engaging 
countenance,  nor  her  affectionate  language.  I  nursed  her  faith- 
fully more  than  three  months,  before  she  was  entirely  confined 
to  her  bed,  but  saw  with  heart-felt  sorrow  that  she  was  evidently 
declining.  A  few  weeks  before  her  departure,  she  asked  me 
if  I  supposed  she  would  recover.  I  told  her  I  thought  she 
would  be  spared,  if  no  new  complaint  should  set  in.  She  re- 
plied that  she  hoped  she  should ;  and  if  favoured  to  recover, 
she  would  endeavour  to  be  more  thoughtful,  and  more  devoted 
to  her  Maker,  than  heretofore.  I  remarked  that  I  did  not  think 
she  could  have  a  great  deal  to  do.  She  answered,  '  I  know 
that  I  have  a  merciful  Saviour,  and  all-wise  Father,  but  I  feel 
as  if  there  was  something  more  for  me  to  do.  Yet  if  I  should 
be  removed,  it  will  be  for  the  best,  and  I  hope  I  may  feel  recon- 
ciled.' I  believe  she  cherished  the  hope  that  she  would  recover, 
until  within  a  week  of  her  decease  ;  but  about  that  time  a  new 
symptom  appeared,  which  still  increased  her  debility,  and 
afterwards  she  failed  very  fast.  One  of  the  physicians  having 
paid  her  a  visit,  she  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  her  case. 
He  observed  there  would  be  a  change  before  many  days,  which 
she  seemed  rather  surprised  to  hear.  I  left  the  room  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  returned  immediately  after  the  doctor  had  gone  out. 
She  then  addressed  me  in  the  most  affectionate  manner,  saying, 
4  My  dear  aunt,  do  not  be  too  much  troubled  at  what  the  physi- 
cian has  said  ;  it  will  no  doubt  be  for  the  best.'  I  seldom  left 
her  bed,  except  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time.  She  frequently 
addressed  me  affectionately,  saying,  '  Aunt,  let  me  go.'  Two 
or  three  days  before  her  death,  we  expected  it  momentarily. 
On  First-day  morning,  the  2d  inst.,  she  quietly  departed,  and 
was  received  into  the  mansions  of  perfect  peace  and  rest. 
Solitary,  indeed,  do  I  feel,  for  in  her  was  centred  my  earthly 
happiness.  She  approached  nearer  perfection  than  human 
nature  generally  attains  to— she  was  all  I  could  desire — and  is 
much  lamented  here  by  all  who  knew  her." 

She  died  on  the  second  day  of  the  Eleventh  Month  (Novem- 
ber) 1834,  in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  her  age.  Her  re- 
mains were  interred  near  the  family  residence  at  Hazlebank, 
the  chosen  place  which  she  had  herself  dedicated  to  philanthropy 
and  the  Muses.  While  her  ashes  repose  in  the  silent  grave, 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  43 

beneath  her  own  transplanted  forest-vine,*  and  the  fragrant  wild- 
flowers  deck  its  verdant  sod,  often  will  imagination  visit  the 
consecrated  spot,  and  drop  a  tear  to  the  memory  of  departed 
worth.  The  loss  of  one  possessing  such  rare  talents,  superior 
mental  endowments,  and  sincere  devotedness  to  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity,  though  it  can  never  be  duly  estimated,  will  long  be  felt 
and  deplored  in  the  circle  of  her  acquaintance.  And  while  we 
deeply  lament  the  untimely  bereavement,  let  us  ever  cherish 
the  fond  remembrance  of  her  exalted  virtues,  under  the  full 
assurance  that  her  immortal  spirit  is  at  rest,  in  the  perfect  frui- 
tion of  unalloyed  peace  and  eternal  felicity. 

We  conclude  by  presenting  the  reader  with  the  final  effusion 
of  her  pious  and  sentimental  muse.  What  humility  and  purity 
of  heart — what  living  earnestness  of  devotion — do  we  here 
perceive !  It  is  especially  recommended  to  the  notice  of  those 
who  profess  and  practise  the  pure  Christian  principles  of  phi- 
lanthropy which  distinguished  her  own  actions.  It  was  the  LAST 
ARTICLE  that  she  wrote  for  the  "  GENIUS  OF  UNIVERSAL 
EMANCIPATION." 

PRAISE    AND    PRAYER. 

PRAISE  !  for  slumbers  of  the  night, 
For  the  wakening  morning's  light, 
For  the  board  with  plenty  spread, 
Gladness  o'er  the  spirit  shed, 
Healthful  pulse  and  cloudless  eye, 
Opening  on  the  smiling  sky. 

Praise !  for  loving  hearts  that  still 
With  life's  bounding  pulses  thrill ; 
Praise,  that  still  our  own  may  know — 
Earthly  joy  and  earthly  woe. 
Praise  for  every  varied  good, 
Bounteous  round  our  pathway  «trew'd ! 

Prayer  !  for  grateful  hearts  to  raise 
Incense  meet  of  prayer  and  praise ! 

*  The  charming  and  sentimental  piece  entitled,  "  The  Forest  Vine,' 
was  one  of  the  latest  productions  of  her  pen.  It  was  written  during  the 
period  of  her  affliction,  and  breathes  the  loftiest  strains  of  poetic  genius 
and  pious  aspiration. 


44  MEMOIR    OF    ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER. 

Prayer,  for  spirits  calm  and  meek, 
Wisdom  life's  best  joys  to  seek ; 
Strength  'midst  devious  paths  to  tread- 
That  through  which  the  Saviour  led. 

Prayer  !  for  those  who,  day  by  day, 
Weep  their  bitter  lives  away ; 
Prayer,  for  those  who  bind  the  chain 
Rudely  on  their  throbbing  vein, — 
That  repentance  deep  may  win 
Pardon  for  the  fearful  sin !" 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER 


45 


OP 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER. 


THE  BRANDYWINE* 

MY  foot  has  climb'd  the  rocky  summit's  height, 
And  in  mute  rapture,  from  its  lofty  brow, 
Mine  eye  is  gazing  round  me  with  delight, 
On  all  of  beautiful,  above,  below  : 
The  fleecy  smoke-wreath  upward  curling  slow, 
The  silvery  waves  half  hid  with  bowering  green, 
That  far  beneath  in  gentle  murmurs  flow, 
Or  onward  dash  in  foam  and  sparkling  sheen, — 
While  rocks  and  forest-boughs  hide  half  the  distant  scene. 

In  sooth,  from  this  bright  wilderness  't  is  sweet 
To  look  through  loop-holes  form'd  by  forest  boughs, 
And  view  the  landscape  far  beneath  the  feet, 
Where  cultivation  all  its  aid  bestows, 
And  o'er  the  scene  an  added  beauty  throws ; 
The  busy  harvest  group,  the  distant  mill, 
The  quiet  cattle  stretch'd  in  calm  repose, 
The  cot,  half  seen  behind  the  sloping  hill, — 
All  mingled  in  one  scene  with  most  enchanting  skill. 

The  very  air  that  breathes  around  my  cheek, 
The  summer  fragrance  of  my  native  hills, 
Seems  with  the  voice  of  other  times  to  speak, 
And,  while  it  each  unquiet  feeling  stills, 

*  A  beautiful  stream,  flowing  near  the  author's  place  of  nativity. 

47 


48  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

My  pensive  soul  with  hallow'd  memories  fills : 
My  fathers'  hall  is  there ;  their  feet  have  press'd 
The  flower-gemm'd  margin  of  these  gushing  rills, 
When  lightly  on  the  water's  dimpled  breast, 
Their  own  light  bark  beside  the  frail  canoe  would  rest. 

The  rock  was  once  your  dwelling-place,  my  sires ! 
Or  cavern  scoop'd  within  the  green  hill's  side ; 
The  prowling  wolf  fled  far  your  beacon  fires, 
And  the  kind  Indian  half  your  wants  supplied ; 
While  round  your  necks  the  wampum  belt  he  tied, 
He  bade  you  on  his  lands  in  peace  abide, 
Nor  dread  the  wakening  of  the  midnight  brand, 
Or  aught  of  broken  faith  to  loose  the  peace-belt's  band. 

Oh  !  if  there  is  in  beautiful  and  fair, 
A  potency  to  charm,  a  power  to  bless ; 
If  bright  blue  skies  and  music-breathing  air, 
And  nature  in  her  every  varied  dress 
Of  peaceful  beauty  and  wild  loveliness, 
Can  shed  across  the  heart  one  sunshine  ray,    ?^ 
Then  others,  too,  sweet  stream,  with  only  less 
Than  mine  own  joy,  shall  gaze,  and  bear  away 
Some  cherish'd  thought  of  thee  for  many  a  coming  day. 

But  yet  not  utterly  obscure  thy  banks, 
Nor  all  unknown  to  history's  page  thy  name  ; 
For  there  wild  war  hath  pour'd  his  battle  ranks, 
And  stamp'd  in  characters  of  blood  and  flame, 
Thine  annals  in  the  chronicles  of  fame. 
The  wave  that  ripples  on,  so  calm  and  still, 
Hath  trembled  at  the  war-cry's  loud  acclaim, 
The  cannon's  voice  hath  roll'd  from  hill  to  hill, 
And  'midst  thy  echoing  vales  the  trump  hath  sounded  shrill. 

My  country's  standard  waved  on  yonder  height, 
Her  red  cross  banner  England  there  display'd, 
And  there  the  German,  who,  for  foreign  fight, 
Had  left  his  own  domestic  hearth,  and  made 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  49 

War,  with  its  horrors  and  its  blood,  a  trade, 
Amidst  the  battle  stood  ;  and  all  the  day, 
The  bursting  bomb,  the  furious  cannonade, 
The  bugle's  martial  notes,  the  musket's  play, 
In  mingled  uproar  wild,  resounded  far  away. 

Thick  clouds  of  smoke  obscured  the  clear  bright  sky, 
And  hung  above  them  like  a  funeral  pall, 
Shrouding  both  friend  and  foe,  so  soon  to  lie 
Like  brethren  slumbering  in  one  father's  hall. 
The  work  of  death  went  on,  and  when  the  fall 
Of  night  came  onward  silently,  and  shed 
A  dreary  hush,  where  late  was  uproar  all, 
How  many  a  brother's  heart  in  anguish  bled 
O'er  cherish'd  ones,  who  there  lay  resting  with  the  dead. 

Unshrouded  and  uncoffin'd  they  were  laid 
Within  the  soldier's  grave,  e'en  where  they  fell ; 
At  noon  they  proudly  trod  the  field — the  spade 
At  night  dug  out  their  resting-place — and  well 
And  calmly  did  they  slumber,  though  no  bell 
Peal'd  over  them  its  solemn  music  slow  ; 
The  night-winds  sung  their  only  dirge,  their  knell 
Was  but  the  owlet's  boding  cry  of  woe, 
The  flap  of  night-hawk's  wing,  and  murmuring  waters'  flow. 

But  it  is  over  now, — the  plough  hath  rased 
All  trace  of  where  war's  wasting  hand  hath  been : 
No  vestige  of  the  battle  may  be  traced, 
Save  where  the  share,  in  passing  o'er  the  scene, 
Turns  up  some  rusted  ball ;  the  maize  is  green 
On  what  was  once  the  death-bed  of  the  brave ; 
The  waters  have  resumed  their  wonted  sheen, 
The  wild  bird  sings  in  cadence  with  the  wave, 
And  naught  remains  to  show  the  sleeping  soldier's  grave. 

A  pebble  stone  that  on  the  war-field  lay, 
And  a  wild-rose  that  blossom'd  brightly  there, 
Were  all  the  relics  that  I  bore  away, 
To  tell  that  I  had  trod  the  scene  of  war, 

5 


50  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

When  I  had  turn'd  my  footsteps  homeward  far — 
These  may  seem  childish  things  to  some  ;  to  me 
They  shall  be  treasured  ones  ;  and,  like  the  star 
That  guides  the  sailor  o'er  the  pathless  sea, 
They  shall  lead  back  my  thoughts,  loved  Brandy  wine,  to  thee- 


THE    AFRIC'S    DREAM. 

WHY  did  ye  wake  me  from  my  sleep  ?  it  was  a  dream  of  bliss, 
And  ye  have  torn  me  from  that  land  to  pine  again  in  this  ; 
Methought,  beneath  yon  whispering  tree,  that  I  was  laid  to  rest, 
The  turf,  with  all  its  withering  flowers,  upon  my  cold  heart 
press'd. 

My  chains,  these  hateful  chains,  were  gone— oh,  would  that  I 

might  die, 

So  from  my  swelling  pulse  I  could  forever  cast  them  by ! 
And  on,  away  o'er  land  and  sea,  my  joyful  spirit  passed, 
Till  'neath  my  own  banana  tree,  I  lighted  down  at  last. 

My  cabin  door,  with  all  its  flowers,  was  still  profusely  gay, 
As  when  I  lightly  sported  there,  in  childhood's  careless  day ! 
But  trees  that  were  as  sapling  twigs,  with  broad  and  shadowing 

bough, 
Around  the  well-known  threshold  spread  a  freshening  coolness 

now. 

The  birds  whose  notes  I  used  to  hear,  were  shouting  on  the 

earth, 

As  if  to  greet  me  back  again  with  their  wild  strains  of  mirth  ; 
My  own  bright  stream  was  at  my  feet,  and  how  I  laugh'd  to 

lave 
My  burning  lip  and  cheek  and  brow  in  that  delicious  wave  ! 

My  boy,  my  first-born  babe,  had  died  amid  his  early  hours, 
And  there  we  laid  him  to  his  sleep  among  the  clustering  flowers ; 
Yet  lo !  without  my  cottage  door  he  sported  in  his  glee, 
With  her  whose  grave  is  far  from  his,  beneath  yon  linden  tree. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  51 

I  sprang  to  snatch  them  to  my  soul ;  when  breathing  out  my 

name, 
To  grasp  my  hand,  and  press  my  lip,  a  crowd  of  loved  ones 

came! 
Wife,  parents,  children,  kinsmen,  friends !  the  dear  and  lost 

ones  all, 
With  blessed  words  of  welcome  came,  to  greet  me  from  my 

thrall. 

Forms  long  unseen  were  by  my  side ;  and  thrilling  on  my  ear, 
Came  cadences  from  gentle  tones,  unheard  for  many  a  year ; 
And  on  my  cheek  fond  lips  were  press'd,  with  true  affection's 

kiss — 
And  so  ye  waked  me  from  my  sleep — but 't  was  a  dream  of  bliss ! 


JOHN  WOOLMAN. 

MEEK,  humble,  sinless  as  a  very  child, 

Such  wert  thou, — and,  though  unbeheld,  I  seem 

Oft-times  to  gaze  upon  thy  features  mild, 
Thy  grave,  yet  gentle  lip,  and  the  soft  beam 

Of  that  kind*eye,  that  knew  not  how  to  shed 

A  glance  of  aught  save  love,  on  any  human  head. 

Servant  of  Jesus  !  Christian  !  not  alone 

In  name  and  creed,  with  practice  differing  wide, 

Thou  didst  not  in  thy  conduct  fear  to  own 
His  self-denying  precepts  for  thy  guide. 

Stern  only  to  thyself,  all  others  felt 

Thy  strong  rebuke  was  love,  not  meant  to  crush,  but  melt. 

Thou,  who  didst  pour  o'er  all  the  human  kind 

The  gushing  fervour  of  thy  sympathy ! 
E'en  the  unreasoning  brute,  fail'd  not  to  find 

A  pleader  for  his  happiness  in  thee. 
Thy  heart  was  moved  for  every  breathing  thing, 
By  careless  man  exposed  to  needless  suffering. 

But  most  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  the  slave, 
Stirr'd  the  deep  fountain  of  thy  pitying  heart ; 

And  still  thy  hand  was  stretch'd  to  aid  and  save, 
Until  it  seem'd  that  thou  hadst  taken  a  part 


52  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

In  their  existence,  and  couldst  hold  no  more 

A  separate  life  from  them,  as  thou  hadst  done  before. 

How  the  sweet  pathos  of  thy  eloquence, 

Beautiful  in  its  simplicity,  went  forth 
Entreating  for  them  !  that  this  vile  offence, 

So  unbeseeming  of  our  country's  worth, 
Might  be  removed  before  the  threatening  cloud, 
Thou  saw'st  o'erhanging  it,  should  burst  in  storm  and  blood. 

So  may  thy  name  be  reverenced, — thou  wert  one 
Of  those  whose  virtues  link  us  to  our  kind, 

By  our  best  sympathies ;  thy  day  is  done, 
But  its  twilight  lingers  still  behind, 

In  thy  pure  memory  ;  and  we  bless  thee  yet, 

For  the  example  fair  thou  hast  before  us  set. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  THE  YEAR. 

THE  gray  old  year — the  dying  year, 

His  sands  were  well  nigh  run ; 
When  there  came  by  one  in  priestly  weed, 

To  ask  of  the  deeds  he'd  done. 
w  Now  tell  me,  ere  thou  treadst  the  path 

Thy  brethren  all  have  trode, 
The  scenes  that  life  has  shown  to  thee 

Upon  thine  onward  road." 

"  I  've  seen  the  sunbeam  rise  and  set, 

As  it  rose  and  set  before 
And  the  hearts  of  men  bent  earthwardly, 

As  they  have  been  evermore  ; 
The  Christian  raised  his  hallow'd  fanes, 

And  bent  the  knee  to  God ; 
But  his  hand  was  strong,  and  guilt  and  wrong 

Defaced  the  earth  he  trod. 

"  The  Indian,  by  his  forest  streams, 

Still  chased  the  good  red  deer, 
Or  turn'd  away  to  kneel  and  pray 

With  the  Christian's  faith  and  fear ; 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  53 

The  hunting-knife  he  flung  aside, 

He  dropp'd  the  warrior  blade, 
And  delved  for  bread  the  soil  o'er  which 

His  fathers  idly  stray'd. 

"  The  white  man  saw  that  gold  was  there, 

And  sought,  with  savage  hand, 
To  drive  his  guiltless  brother  forth, 

A  wanderer  o'er  the  land. 
I  saw — and  gave  the  tale  of  shame 

To  swell  on  history's  page, — 
A  blot  upon  Columbia's  name 

For  many  a  future  age. 

"  With  aching  brow  and  wearied  limb, 

The  slave  his  toil  pursued ; 
And  oft  I  saw  the  cruel  scourge 

Deep  in  his  blood  imbrued  ; 
He  till'd  oppression's  soil,  where  men 

For  liberty  had  bled, 
And  the  eagle  wing  of  Freedom  waved 

In  mockery,  o'er  his  head. 

"  The  earth  was  fill'd  with  the  triumph  shout 

Of  men  who  had  burst  their  chains  ; 
But  his,  the  heaviest  of  them  all, 

Still  lay  on  his  burning  veins  ; 
In  his  master's  hall  there  was  luxury, 

And  wealth,  and  mental  light ; 
But  the  very  book  of  the  Christian  law 

Was  hidden  from  hirn  in  night. 

'  In  his  master's  halls  there  was  wine  and  mirth, 

And  songs  for  the  newly  free  ; 
But  his  own  low  cabin  was  desolate 

Of  all  but  misery. 
He  felt  it  all — and  to  bitterness 

His  heart  within  him  turn'd, 
While  the  panting  wish  for  liberty 

Like  a  fire  in  his  bosom  burn'a. 
5* 


POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

"  The  haunting  thought  of  his  wrongs  grew  changed 

To  a  darker  and  fiercer  hue, 
Till  the  horrible  shape  it  sometimes  wore 

At  last  familiar  grew  ; 
There  was  darkness  all  within  his  heart, 

And  madness  in  his  soul, 
And  the  demon  spark,  in  his  bosom  nursed, 

Blazed  up  beyond  control. 

"  Then  came  a  scene — oh !  such  a  scene ! 

I  would  I  might  forget 
The  ringing  sound  of  the  midnight  scream, 

And  the  hearth-stone  redly  wet ! 
The  mother  slain  while  she  shriek'd  in  vain 

For  her  infant's  threaten'd  life, 
And  the  flying  form  of  the  frighted  child, 

Struck  down  by  the  bloody  knife. 

"  There 's  many  a  heart  that  yet  will  start 

From  its  troubled  sleep,  at  night, 
As  the  horrid  form  of  the  vengeful  slave 

Comes  in  dreams  before  the  sight. 
The  slave  was  crush'd,  and  his  fetters'  link 

Drawn  tighter  than  before  ; 
And  the  bloody  earth  again  was  drench'd 

With  the  streams  of  his  flowing  gore. 

"  Ah !  know  they  not,  that  the  tightest  band 

Must  burst  with  the  wildest  power  ? — 
That  the  more  the  slave  is  oppress'd  and  wrong'd, 

Will  be  fiercer  his  rising  hour  ? 
They  may  thrust  him  back  with  the  arm  of  might, 

They  may  drench  the  earth  with  his  blood, — 
But  the  best  and  purest  of  their  own, 

Will  blend  with  the  sanguine  flood. 

"  I  could  tell  thee  more, — but  my  strength  is  gone, 

And  my  breath  is  wasting  fast ; 
Long  ere  the  darkness  to-night  has  fled, 

Will  my  life  from  the  earth  have  pass'd ; 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  55 

But  this,  the  sum  of  all  I  have  learn'd, 

Ere  I  go  I  will  tell  to  thee ; — 
If  tyrants  would  hope  for  tranquil  hearts, 

They  must  let  the  oppress'd  go  free." 


NEW   YEAR'S    EVE. 

NIGHT  !  with  its  thousand  stars,  and  the  deep  hush 

That  makes  its  darkness  solemn  !     The  winds  rush 

In  troubled  music,  o'er  the  wooded  hill, 

And  the  wide  plain  where  creeps  the  fetter'd  rill, 

In  wintry  silence ;  but  a  softer  sound 

Of  melody  from  man's  lit  halls  swells  round 

No  slumber  yet  to-night !  the  hours  fleet  on, 

With  converse,  song,  and  laughter's  joyous  tone ; 

The  young  and  gay  are  met  in  social  mirth, 

Or  the  home  circle  gathers  round  the  hearth, 

Or  swelling  upwards  from  the  house  of  prayer, 

The  voice  of  praise  concludes  the  passing  year. 

'T  is  almost  midnight  now  ; — hark  !  hush  ! — the  bell 

At  once  a  note  of  triumph  and  a  knell ! 

A  sudden  silence — the  quick  breath  quell'd, 

The  speaker's  voice  in  mute  suspension  held ; 

What  thousand  thoughts  are  in  that  moment  press'd— 

Past,  present,  future,  crowding  on  the  breast, 

As  stroke  by  stroke  tolls  on  ! — and  then  a  start — 

A  sudden  lightning  of  the  eye  and  heart, 

A  burst  of  joyous  greeting — such  as  here 

We  wish  you,  friends  beloved — a  happy  year ! 

So  speeds  time  on !  scarce  seems  a  moment  sped, 

Since  first  we  hail'd  the  year  that  now  has  fled. 

So  speeds  time  on — but  hath  it  left  no  trace, 

That  future  hours  shall  never  more  efface? 

Go,  turn  to  Poland  !  may  her  sons  forget 

Their  desolated  fields  with  carnage  wet  ? 

Their  bright  brief  hopes, — their  struggle,  fierce  and  proud. 

With  the  stern  despot  'neath  whose  yoke  they  bow'd, 

The  lightning  thrill  that  flash'd  through  every  breast, 

When  wakening  freedom  waved  her  eagle  crest, 


56  POETICAL    WORKS   OF 

Their  hopes  upspringing  almost  from  despair, 

And  burning  with  a  short  illusive  glare, 

Soon  to  be  quench'd  in  blood  ?    Oh,  God  of  Peace ! 

Must  such  wild  scenes  of  carnage  never  cease? 

Is  blood  "  pour'd  out  like  water,"  still  to  be 

The  price  of  man's  high  yearning  to  be  free  ? 

Woe  for  the  tyrant's  selfishness  and  pride, 

That  hath  to  man  his  holiest  rights  denied  ! 

Is  life  too  poor  in  ills? — hath  death  so  scant 

His  fearful  quiver  stored,  that  man  should  pant 

To  give  the  earth  red  graves  ?    Ah  !  when  shall  right 

Her  nobler  triumphs  seek  by  moral  light, 

And  learn  that  e'en  the  sweets  of  liberty 

Are  bought,  with  slaughter,  at  a  price  too  high  ? 

And  when  shall  our  own  banner  cease  to  wave 

Its  starry  folds  in  mockery  o'er  the  slave? 

Oh !  blot  upon  our  land,  and  heavy  shame 

That  e'er  Columbia  should  bear  such  name  ! — 

That  men,  like  beasts,  should  be  enslaved  and  sold 

For  a  base  pittance  of  mere  sordid  gold ; 

That  women's  limbs  beneath  the  scourge  should  bleed, 

The  swollen  pomp  of  luxury  to  feed ; 

And  in  the  freest  nation  known  on  earth, 

The  licensed  thief  invade  the  household  hearth ; 

The  purest,  best  affections  of  the  heart, 

And  the  strong  ties  of  kindred  rend  apart, 

And  seizing,  fiend-like,  on  his  helpless  prey, 

Tear  them  forever  from  their  homes  away. 

Oh,  when  shall  tyrants  learn  that  human  veins 

Bear  pulses  that  were  never  made  for  chains  : 

And  loose  their  links  before  the  oppress'd  one's  band 

Becomes  a  deadly  weapon  in  his  hand ! 

Our  brethren  found  it  such  ; — in  southern  halls, 

The  cold  damp  foot  of  desolation  falls ; 

Young  gladsome  eyes  that  late  were  sparkling  bright, 

With  the  free  spirit's  joyous  gush  of  light, 

Mothers  made  happy  by  the  bursts  of  glee 

From  the  gay  creatures  grouped  about  their  knee, 

The  brow  of  hoary  eld — all,  all  are  there, 

With  the  pale  look  of  anguish  and  despair : 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  57 

Or,  smitten  rudely  to  the  reeking  earth, 

Have  deluged  with  their  blood  their  own  loved  hearth. 

Alas,  alas,  for  them  !  alas,  for  those 

Who  still  in  white-lipp'd  terror  wait  their  foes  ! 

And  woe  for  all  the  oppressors'  haughty  guilt, 

And  the  fresh  blood  his  vengeful  hand  hath  spilt ! 

Oh,  Heaven  !  in  mercy  yield  them  yet  a  space 

To  speak  with  tears  of  penitence  thy  grace ! 

Touch  their  steel'd  hearts  with  thy  dissolving  love, 

And  their  vile  stains  of  prejudice  remove, 

That  they  may  learn,  upon  the  negro's  face, 

A  brother's  lineaments  at  last  to  trace ; 

And  strike  away  the  soul-degrading  chains 

Which  long  have  hung  upon  his  swollen  veins ; 

That  mad  relentless  hatred  may  no  more 

Flood  the  red  earth  with  streams  of  mingled  gore, 

And  other  new  years  o'er  our  country  rise, 

With  brighter  aspect  and  more  cloudless  skies. 


THE  SLAVE'S  APPEAL. 

CHRISTIAN  mother  !  when  thy  prayer 
Trembles  on  the  twilight  air, 
And  thou  askest  God  to  keep, 

In  their  waking  and  their  sleep, 

Those  whose  love  is  more  to  thee 
Than  the  wealth  of  land  or  sea, 
Think  of  those  who  wildly  mourn 
For  the  loved  ones  from  them  torn ! 

Christian  daughter,  sister,  wife ! 
Ye  who  wear  a  guarded  life — 
Ye,  whose  bliss  hangs  not,  like  mine, 
On  a  tyrant's  word  or  sign, 
Will  ye  hear,  with  careless  eye, 
Of  the  wild  despairing  cry, 
Rising  up  from  human  hearts, 
As  their  latest  bliss  departs  ? 


58  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Blest  ones  !  whom  no  hands  on  earth 
Dares  to  wrench  from  home  and  hearth, 
Ye  whose  hearts  are  shelter'd  well, 
By  affection's  holy  spell, 
Oh,  forget  not  those  for  whom 
Life  is  naught  but  changeless  gloom, 
O'er  whose  days  of  cheerless  sorrow, 
Hope  may  paint  no  brighter  morrow. 


HEAVEN  HELP    YE! 

HEAVEN  help  ye,  lorn  ones  !  bending 
'Neath  your  weary  life  of  pain, 
Tears  of  ceaseless  anguish  blending 
With  the  bitter  cup  ye  drain ; 
Yet  think  not  your  prayers  ascending, 
Shall  forever  rise  in  vain. 

Hearts  there  are  of  human  feeling, 
That  have  felt  your  cry  of  woe  ; 
Bear  awhile !  and  soon  revealing 
Brighter  prospects  with  its  glow, 
Light  across  your  night-clouds  stealing 
Hours  of  freedom  yet  may  show. 


CHRIS  TIAJN     L.UVE. 

Oh,  Father  !  when  the  soften'd  heart 

Is  lifted  up  in  prayer  to  thee, 
When  earthly  thoughts  awhile  depart, 

And  leave  the  mounting  spirit  free — 
Then  teach  us  that  our  love,  like  thine, 

O'er  all  the  realms  of  earth  should  flow, 
A  shoreless  stream,  a  flood  divine, 

To  bathe  and  heal  the  heart  of  woe. 

Then  Afric's  son  shall  hear  no  more 
The  tyrant's  in  the  Christian's  name ; 

Nor  tears  of  wasting  anguish  pour 
Unpitied,  o'er  his  life  of  shame  j 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER.  59 

But  taught  to  love  thee,  by  the  love 

That  bids  his  long-worn  fetters  break, 
He,  too,  shall  lift  his  soul  above, 

And  serve  thee  for  thy  mercy's  sake. 


THE  KNEELING  SLAVE. 

Prrr  the  negro,  lady  !  her's  is  not, 

Like  thine,  a  blessed  and  most  happy  lot ! 

Thou,  shelter'd  'neath  a  parent's  tireless  care, 

The  fondly  loved,  the  theme  of  many  a  prayer, 

Blessing,  and  blest,  amidst  thy  circling  friends, 

Whose  love  repays  the  joys  thy  presence  lends, 

Tread'st  gaily  onward,  o'er  thy  path  of  flowers, 

With  ceaseless  summer  lingering  round  thy  bowers. 

But  her — the  outcast  of  a  frowning  fate, 

Long  weary  years  of  servile  bondage  wait. 

Her  lot  uncheer'd  by  hope's  reviving  gale, 

The  lowest  in  life's  graduated  scale — 

The  few  poor  hours  of  bliss  that  cheer  her  still, 

Uncertain  pensioners  on  a  master's  will — 

'Midst  ceaseless  toils  renew'd  from  day  to  day, 

She  wears  in  bitter  tears  her  life  away. 

She  is  thy  sister,  woman  !  shall  her  cry, 

Uncared  for,  and  unheeded,  pass  thee  by  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  weep  to  see  her  rank  so  low, 

And  seek  to  raise  her  from  her  place  of  woe? 

Or  has  thy  heart  grown  selfish  in  its  bliss, 

That  thou  shouldst  view  unmoved  a  fate  like  this  1 


STORY-TELLING. 

COME  to  the  green-wood  with  me,  gentle  friend ! 
I  know  a  hidden  dell,  where  the  chafed  stream 
Goes  bounding  playfully  with  child-like  mirth, 
Over  its  stony  path,  and  flinging  up 
Its  waves,  with  seeming  petulance,  in  foam. 
The  bank  slopes  down  unevenly,  but  wears, 
Like  Fairy,  a  gay  mantelet  of  green, 


60  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

All  border'd  daintily  with  bright-hued  flowers ; 

The  gray  old  trees  bend  over  it,  and  up 

Among  their  twisted  boughs,  an  ancient  vine 

Hath  strongly  wreathed  its  stem.     Below,  it  bends 

In  wayward  convolutions  o'er  the  stream, 

Offering  a  couch  where  thou  may'st  safely  sit, 

While  I  recline  beside  thee  on  the  turf; 

Will  not  the  vine-leaves  shade  us  pleasantly, 

While  we  discourse  together  1  wilt  thou  sing  ? 

Or  shall  we  tell  sad  stories  ?    One  I  read 

But  yesterday,  that  lingers  with  me  still, 

Haunting  my  memory  with  its  thoughts  of  woe ; 

'T  was  of  a  dark-brown  slave — one  whose  bright  days 

Of  early  infancy  had  pass'd  beneath 

The  glowing  sun  of  Africa.     She  was  torn, 

Ere  her  tenth  summer,  from  the  sight  of  all 

That  made  her  childhood  happy,  and  the  spring 

Of  all  the  buoyant  hopes  that  make  young  hearts 

So  blissful  in  their  dreams,  was  crush' d  at  once. 

She  was  a  sad-eyed  girl — she  never  met 

In  revel  scenes,  with  those  who  flung  aside 

Their  sorrows  for  mad  joyance ;  but  a  gleam 

Of  something  like  to  bliss  stole  o'er  her  heart, 

When  one,  who  shared  her  infant  sports,  would  speak 

Of  those  remembered  hours.     She  wedded  him ; 

And  years  of  spirit-wearing  toil  went  by, 

Even  amidst  her  bonds,  with  almost  happiness. 

He  could  not  brook  his  chains  :  a  quenchless  fire 

Was  in  his  spirit,  and  he  burst  all  ties 

That  bound  his  heart — he  left  her,  and  was  free ; 

She  bore  her  sorrows  patiently,  and  scarce 

Let  fall  a  tear-drop  ;  but  the  gentle  ones 

That  call'd  her  mother,  were  more  closely  bound 

In  her  bereaved  affections  ;  and  their  love 

Was  all  that  warm'd  the  pulses  of  her  heart. 

Then  came  another  and  a  darker  blight : 

They  were  torn  from  her,  one  by  one,  and  sold, 

Those  nestlings  of  her  heart ;  and  she  grew  wild 

With  her  exceeding  anguish,  and  her  cry 

Went  forth  in  accusation  up  to  heaven. 

She  wander'd  o'er  each  spot  where  they  had  been, 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  61 

Calling  their  names,  and  mourning  with  a  grief 

That  had  no  comforter  ;  until  at  length 

The  springs  of  life  were  wasted ;  and  she  laid 

At  twilight  hour,  her  head  upon  the  turf 

In  dying  feebleness.     There  came  one  by, 

Who  would  have  spoke  her  kindly  then,  and  soothed 

The  parting  spirit ;  but  the  time  was  past ; 

She  raised  her  head  a  moment,  and  once  more 

Repeated  the  sad  burden  of  her  grief: 

"  Me  have  no  children,  massa,  no  one  child !" 

And  her  last  cry  was  hush'd  ! 


OUR   FATHER. 


"  As  the  little  fellow  walked  by  the  side  of  my  horse,  I  asked  him  if 
there  was  any  church  that  the  slaves  attended  on  Sunday.  He  said  no, 
there  was  none  near  enough,  and  he  had  never  seen  one.  I  asked  him  if 
he  knew  where  people  went  to  when  they  died,  and  was  much  affected 
with  the  simple,  earnest  look,  with  which  he  pointed  to  the  sky,  as  he 
replied, '  To  Fader,  dere.' " ADAM  HODGSON. 


THAT  dearest  name!    ay,  even  thou,  poor  slave,  may'st  lift 

thine  eye, 
Nor  dread   a  chilling  glance  of  scorn  will   meet  thee   from 

the  sky  : 

Go  bend  the  knee,  and  raise  the  soul,  and  lift  thy  hopes  above, 
The  God, of  heaven  is  even  to  thee,  a  Father  in  his  love. 

The  earth-worm,  man,  may  crush  thee  down  to  slavery  and 

shame, 

And  in  his  puny  pride  usurp  a  master's  haughty  name ; 
But  He,  Lord  God  Omnipotent,  disdaineth  not  to  bear 
A  parent's  cherish'd  name  to  thee,  to  yield  a  parent's  care. 

And  thou,  with  childlike  confidence,  may'st  spring  to  his  embrace, 
Nor  shrink  in  shame  before  the  glance  of  that  paternal  face ; 
Thou  art  not  yet  an  ingrate  vile — thou  hast  not,  in  thy  pride, 
Return'd  him  falsehood  for  his  love,-^his  holiest  laws  defied. 

6 


62  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Thou  never  like  a  thief  hast  spoil'd  the  nurslings  of  his  fold  j 
Thou  ne'er  hast  given  thy  brother's  form  to  be  enslaved  and  sold ; 
No  wrathful  thunders  seem,  to  thee,  to  clothe  his  vengeful  arm, 
Nor  fearful  lightnings  in  his  eye,  awake  thy  wild  alarm. 

Our  Father !  oh  how  deeply  dear  that  holy  name  should  be — 
How  should  we  love  the  meanest  one,  who  thus  may  call  on  Thee ! 
And  yet — thou  Just  and  Righteous  God !  if  thou  wert  not  our  sire, 
Long  since  we  had  been  swept  away  by  thy  consuming  ire. 


DOOM. 

BE  hush'd,  triumphant  sounds  !  ye  bring  not  now 

A  gush  of  pride  along  the  glowing  brow ; 

Ye  wake  no  more  a  dream  of  future  fame, 

And  added  glory  to  my  country's  name ; 

Ye  only  mind  me  of  her  crimson'd  hands, 

Her  sullied  faith,  her  broken  treaty-bands. 

Oh,  better  far  contrition,  sad  and  mute, 

Or  tearful  prayers  her  guilty  lip  would  suit, — 

Joy  not  for  her — the  hearts  her  sin  hath  crush'd, 

With  groans  return  your  shouts — proud  sounds,  be  hush'd. 

Lo!  yonder  where  the  starry  flag  streams  free, 
And  swift  the  light  bark  cleaves  the  foaming  sea, — 
There  bursting  hearts,  in  hopeless  anguish  torn 
From  all  they  love,  to  distant  lands  are  borne,  j 
In  wild  despairing  groans  they  breathe  their  woe, 
And  call  on  those  they  ne'er  shall  view  below, 
As  thoughts  that  framed  their  deepest  bliss,  but  now 
Send  added  torture  to  the  burning  brow  ; 
While  fated  still  her  wonted  chain  to  wear, 
And  all  the  weight  of  lonely  bondage  bear, 
In  shrieks,  the  frantic  mother,  from  the  shore, 
Beholds  them  sever  to  return  no  more. 

And  are  there  none  to  whose  relentless  breast 
The  Afric's  plea  is  not  in  vain  address'd? 
Who  shame  them  not  to  own  his  kindred  claim, 
And  gift  the  negro  with  a  brother's  name  ? 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  63 

Ay,  there  are  some — some  hearts  that  yet  can  feel, 

And  dare  defend  his  rights  and  guard  his  weal, 

Some  few,  who  shrink  not  from  the  oppressor's  power, 

Nor  leave  him  helpless  in  his  gloomy  hour. 

A  fire  is  lit  on  Freedom's  holiest  shrine, 

That  yet  o'er  Afric's  midnight  sky  shall  shine ; 

For  this  shall  woman's  prayers  to  heaven  ascend, 

Her  breath  shall  fan  it,  and  her  care  attend ; 

Thus  swift  from  heart  to  heart  the  flame  shall  run, 

And  triumph  crown  the  work,  but  now  begun. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  UNFORTUNATE. 

LIGHT  fall  the  early  dews  of  even,  and  out  upon  the  air 

The  cereus  flowers  fling  lavishly  the  fragrance  that  they  bear ; 

One  star,  of  all  the  eyes  of  heaven,  is  yet  alone  awake, 

And  sends  abroad  its  prying  glance  to  gaze  on  bower  and  lake. 

Come  bid  the  silent  lute  breathe  out  a  low  and  mournful  strain, 
A  sad  and  tearful  melody,  a  wailing  for  the  slain ; 
And  as  the  notes  glide  far  away,  I  '11  tell  thee  how  one  died, 
Who  sleeps  in  quiet  loneliness,  forgotten,  by  thy  side. 

The  weary  slave  had  left  his  toil ; — it  was  an  eve  like  this, 
But  to  his  heart  its  loveliness  would  bring  no  throb  of  bliss ; 
He  only  thought  of  former  days,  when  she  who  shared  his  chains 
Had  roved  in  freedom  by  his  side,  amid  their  native  plains. 

A  cry  of  anguish  caught  his  ear — in  shrieks  she  breathed  his 

name, 

And  forward  to  his  cot  he  sprung  with  heart  and  pulse  of  flame ; 
Amid  her  weeping  babes  she  knelt,  and  o'er  her  crouching  head 
The  white  man's  lash  in  mockery  swung,  all  newly  stain'd  with 

red. 

One  blow  has  fell'd  him  to  the  earth — one  blow  alone  was  lent, 
And  from  the  cot  in  rage  and  shame  the  tyrant  master  went ; 
But  for  that  blow  a  felon's  death  the  Afric  chieftain  died, 
And  here,  forgot  by  all  but  her,  he  slumbers  by  thy  side. 


64  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 


THINK  OF  OUR  COUNTRY'S  GLORY. 

THINK  of  our  country's  glory, 
All  dimm'd  with  Afric's  tears — 

Her  broad  flag  stain'd  and  gory 
With  the  hoarded  guilt  of  years ! 

Think  of  the  frantic  mother, 

Lamenting  for  her  child. 
Till  falling  lashes  smother 

Her  cries  of  anguish  wild ! 

Think  of  the  prayers  ascending, 

Yet  shriek'd,  alas  !  in  vain, 
When  heart  from  heart  is  rending 

Ne'er  to  be  join'd  again. 

Shall  we  behold,  unheeding, 

Life's  holiest  feelings  crush'd  1 — 

When  woman's  heart  is  bleeding, 
Shall  woman's  voice  be  hush'd  ? 

Oh,  no  !  by  every  blessing 

That  Heaven  to  thee  may  lend — 

Remember  their  oppression, 
Forget  not,  sister,  friend. 


THE   KINGFISHER. 


A  newspaper  paragraph  gives  an  account  of  the  instance  of  maternal 
affection  in  a  bird,  which  has  been  made  the  subject  of  the  following  lines, 


THE  kingfisher  sat  on  her  hidden  nest, 

Shielding  her  young  with  a  downy  breast ; 

She  had  built  her  home  where  the  wave  went  by, 

Soothing  her  ear  with  its  melody ; 

And  the  wild  white  blossoms  bent  to  dip 

In  the  rushing  waves,  their  thirsty  lip. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  65 

Pleasant  it  was  while  the  skies  were  fair, 
And  perfume  flung  on  the  sunny  air, 
While  the  wind  in  a  low  sweet  whisper  died, 
Ere  it  could  ruffle  the  flowing  tide ; 
And  the  arching  skies  o'er  the  waters  threw 
The  deep  clear  tint  of  their  own  pure  blue. 

But  what  that  is  bright  on  earth  may  last  ? 
Soon  were  the  days  of  her  sunshine  past ; 
On  came  the  storm-winds  muttering  loud, 
Sweeping  before  them  the  thunder-cloud  ; 
And  faster,  as  flash'd  the  lightning's  flame, 
Dashing  to  earth  the  sky-torrents  came. 

Yet  with  her  cold  wet  wing  unstirr'd, 

On  her  shaken  nest  sat  the  mother  bird ; 

Still  'midst  danger  and  death  she  clung, 

With  faithful  love,  to  her  lifeless  young, 

Till  high  around  her  hath  risen  the  tide, 

And  with  her  pinion  stretch'd  o'er  them,  she  died. 

Oh  !  if  affection  like  this  hath  part 

In  the  warm  depths  of  a  wood-bird's  heart — 

That  even  to  die,  is  a  better  fate 

Than  to  leave  her  dear  ones  desolate ; — 

What  is  the  love  of  a  mother's  breast, 

With  the  seal  of  a  deathless  nature  press'd  ? 

Yet  there  are  men  who  will  rudely  tear 
The  dearest  chords  that  are  cherish'd  there ; 
Wrench  from  its  mother's  frantic  hold, 
Her  weeping  babes,  to  be  pawn'd  for  gold ; 
And  scourge  her  amidst  that  living  death, 
If  she  dares  but  give  her  woe  to  breath ! 

Know  ye  the  land  where  such  deeds  are  done, 
In  the  broad  light  of  the  blessed  sun  ? 
Where  the  spoiler  bursts,  with  savage  hand, 
The  holy  links  of  the  household  band ; 
And  the  ties  of  natural  love  are  cast, 
With  a  daring  hand,  to  the  idle  blast? 
6* 


66  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

TO  THOSE  I  LOVE. 

OH,  turn  ye  not  displeased  away,  though  I  should  sometimes 

seem 

Too  much  to  press  upon  your  ear,  an  oft-repeated  theme; 
The  story  of  the  negro's  wrongs  is  heavy  at  my  heart, 
And  can  I  choose  but  wish  from  you  a  sympathizing  parti 

I  turn  to  you  to  share  my  joy, — to  soothe  me  in  my  grief — 
In  wayward  sadness  from  your  smiles,  I  seek  a  sweet  relief: 
And  shall  I  keep  this  burning  wish  to  see  the  slave  set  free, 
Lock'd  darkly  in  my  secret  heart,  unshared  and  silently? 

I  cannot  know  that  all  the  chords,  which  give  their  magic  tone 
Like  Memnon's  harp,  in  music  out,  'neath  sunshine  smiles  alone, 
Are  torn  by  savage  hands  away  from  woman's  bleeding  breast, 
And  with  their  sweetness  on  my  soul,  my  feelings  keep  repress'd! 

If  I  had  been  a  friendless  thing — if  I  had  never  known, 
How  swell  the  fountains  of  the  heart  beneath  affection's  tone, 
I  might  have,  careless,  seen  the  leaf  torn  rudely  from  its  stem, 
But  clinging  as  I  do  to  you,  can  I  but  feel  for  them  ? 

I  could  not  brook  to  list  the  sad  sweet  music  of  a  bird, 
Though  it  were  sweeter  melody  than  ever  ear  hath  heard, 
If  cruel  hands  had  quench'd  its  light,  that  in  the  plaintive  song, 
It  might  the  breathing  memory  of  other  days  prolong. 

And  can  I  give  my  lip  to  taste  the  life-bought  luxuries,  wrung 
From  those  on  whom  a  darker  night  of  anguish  has  been  flung — 
Or  silently  and  selfishly  enjoy  my  better  lot, 
While  those  whom  God  hath  bade  me  love,  are  wretched  and 
forgot  ? 

Oh  no ! — so  blame  me  not,  sweet  friends,  though  I  should  some- 
times seem 

Too  much  to  press  upon  your  ear  an  oft-repeated  theme ; 
The  story  of  the  negro's  wrongs  hath  won  me  from  my  rest, — 
And  I  must  strive  to  wake  for  him  an  interest  in  your  breast ! 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  67 

SADNESS. 

SHINE  not  on  me,  oh,  moon !  with  the  weak  light 
Of  thy  still  beauty,  mocking  the  turmoil 
Of  this  tumultuous  and  jarring  world, 
With  thy  serenity,  as  if  it  were 
Thy  satellite,  and  thou  didst  deem  it  scorn 
To  let  her  passions  move  thee.     I  am  sad — 
And  how  may  I  have  fellowship  with  thee, 
Thou  thing  of  perfect  brightness  ?    If  the  clouds 
That  sometimes  pass  athwart  thy  lovely  brow 
And  shadow  it  as  with  a  pensive  thought, 
Were  round  about  thee  now,  with  thy  mild  veil, 
I  would  not  turn  from  gazing ; — but  away, — 
Thou  art  too  brilliant  for  a  tearful  eye  ! 
And  mine  is  dim  in  sympathy  and  shame, 
For  the  heart-broken,  and  the  guilty  ones, 
Of  my  star-banner'd  land. 

The  blessed  breeze ! 

How  most  deliciously  its  coolness  comes 
With  its  soft  stealing  touch,  to  charm  away 
The  slow,  dull  fever  of  my  heavy  brow  ; 
And  as  I  close  beneath  it,  my  wet  lids, 
To  dry  away  their  tears. — Yet  is  't  not  strange 
How  lightly  it  e'en  bears  its  load  of  sighs  ! 
Why,  't  is  from  the  soft  south — the  guilty  south  ! 
Where  those  who  should  lift  up  a  free  clear  brow 
To  the  pure  light  of  Heaven,  go  bending  down 
The  clouded  forehead,  'neath  the  heavy  shame 
Of  painful  fetters,  to  the  very  grave. 
How,  then,  light  thing  of  music,  how  canst  thou 
Come  thus,  all  gladness,  from  the  burial-place 
Of  the  heart's  best  affections  1   Didst  thou  not 
A  moment  check  the  fluttering  of  thy  wings 
To  listen  to  the  voice  of  woman's  grief, 
Lamenting  for  her  lost  ones  1    Hence  with  thee  !  — - 
Thou  seem'st  to  me  as  thou  wert  made  of  sighs, 
And  the  beseeching  breath  of  woman's  prayers, 
Poured  out  to  hearts  that  knew  not  how  to  feel ! 
Woe  for  man's  selfishness  !    I  will  go  in 
And  cover  up  my  brow  in  the  dull  light, 
As  with  a  mourner's  garment, 


68  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

THINK  OF  THE  SLAVE. 

THINK  of  the  slave,  in  your  hours  of  glee, 
Ye  who  are  treading  life's  flowery  way  ; 

Nought  but  its  rankling  thorns  has  he, 
Nought  but  the  gloom  of  its  wintry  day. 

Think  of  the  slave,  in  your  hours  of  woe  ! — 
What  are  your  sorrows,  to  that  he  bears  ? 

Quenching  the  light  of  his  bosom's  glow, 
With  a  life-long  stain  of  gushing  tears. 

Think  of  the  slave,  in  your  hours  of  prayer, 
When  worldly  thoughts  in  your  hearts  are  dim. 

Offer  your  thanks  for  the  bliss  ye  share, 
But  pray  for  a  brighter  lot  for  him. 


THE  BEREAVED  FATHER, 

YE  have  gone  from  me,  gentle  ones  ! 

With  all  your  shouts  of  mirth  ; 
A  silence  is  within  my  walls, 

A  darkness  round  my  hearth. 

The  brightness  from  my  life  has  gone, 
The  gladness  from  my  heart ! 

Alas  !  alas !  that  such  as  you 
From  home  and  love  should  part ! 

Woe  to  the  hearts  that  heard,  unmoved, 
The  mother's  anguish'd  shriek ! 

And  mock'd,  with  taunting  scorn,  the  tears 
That  bathed  a  father's  cheek. 

Woe  to  the  hands  that  tore  you  hence, 

My  innocent  and  good  ! 
Not  e'en  the  tigress  of  the  wild, 

Thus  tears  her  fellow's  brood. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  69 

I  list  to  hear  your  soft  sweet  tones, 

Upon  the  morning  air  ; 
I  gaze  amidst  the  twilight's  gloom, 

As  if  to  find  you  there. 

But  you  no  more  come  bounding  forth 

To  meet  me  in  your  glee  ; 
And  when  the  evening  shadows  fall, 

Ye  are  not  at  my  knee. 

Your  forms  are  aye  before  my  eyes, 

Your  voices  on  my  ear, 
And  all  things  wear  a  thought  of  youv 

But  you  no  more  are  here. 

You  were  the  glory  of  my  life, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride ! 
I  half  forgot  the  name  of  slave, 

When  you  were  by  my  side ! 

Woe  for  the  lot  that  waiteth  you, 

My  victim  babes  !  through  life ; 
Who  now  shall  teach  you  to  bear  up 

Amidst  its  bitter  strife ! 

Woe  for  your  lot,  ye  doom'd  ones !  woe ! 

A  seal  is  on  your  fate  ! 
And  shame,  and  toil,  and  wretchedness, 

On  all  your  steps  await ! 


OH  TELL  ME  NOT,  I  SHALL  FORGET. 

OH  !  tell  me  not  I  shall  forget, 

Amid  the  scenes  of  nature's  reign, 

The  cheeks  with  bitter  tear-drops  wet, 
The  hearts  whose  every  throb  is  pain. 

The  wood-bird's  merry  notes  may  ring, 
Exulting  'neath  the  clear  blue  sky : 

But  louder  still  the  breezes  bring 
The  echo  of  a  sister's  cry, 


70  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

The  forest  brook  may  sparkle  fair, 
And  win  my  heart  to  love  its  sheen ; 

But  still  it  shows  me,  mirror'd  there, 
The  image  of  a  distant  scene. 

The  verdant  sod  around  my  feet, 

The  treasure  of  its  flowers  may  spread, 

And  close  embowering  branches  meet, 
In  fresh'ning  coolness,  o'er  my  head. 

Yet  not  for  these,  oh  !  not  for  these, 
Can  I  forget  the  Afric's  woe,  — 

The  sighs  that  float  on  every  breeze, 
The  streaming  tears  that  ceaseless  flow. 

No !  though  the  loveliness  of  earth 
Hath  touch'd  my  spirit  like  a  spell, 

And  sooth'd  me  back  to  joy  and  mirth, 
When  darkness  else  had  round  it  fell. 

Though  not  the  simplest  bud,  that  droops 
Beneath  its  weight  of  morning  dew, 

When  light  the  orient  zephyr  stoops 
To  trifle  with  its  petals  blue ; 

Though  not  a  breeze  that  stirs  the  grove, 
Or  wing  that  cleaves  the  summer  air, 

But  hath  a  link  upon  my  love, 

Or  strikes  some  chord  of  feeling  there ; 

Yet  think  not  they  can  lull  my  heart, 
To  carelessness  of  human  woe ; 

Or  bid  the  bitter  tears  that  start 

For  Afric's  wrongs,  no  longer  flow. 


WHAT  IS  A  SLAVE,  MOTHER? 

WHAT  is  a  slave,  mother  ?  —  I  heard  you  say 
That  word  with  a  sorrowful  voice,  one  day ; 
And  it  came  again  to  my  thoughts  last  night, 
As  I  laid  awake  in  the  broad  moonlight ; 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  71 

Methinks  I  have  heard  a  story  told, 
Of  some  poor  men,  who  are  bought  and  sold, 
And  driven  abroad  with  stripes  to  toil, 
The  live-long  day  on  a  stranger's  soil ; 

Is  this  true  mother? 
May  children  as  young  as  I  be  sold, 
And  torn  away  from  their  mother's  hold — 
From  home — from  all  they  have  loved  and  known, 
To  dwell  in  the  great  wide  world  alone, 
Far,  far  away  in  some  distant  place, 
Where  they  never  may  see  their  -parents'  face  1 
Ah  !  how  I  should  weep  to  be  torn  from  you ! 
Tell  me,  dear  mother,  can  this  be  true  ? 

Alas,  yes,  my  child. 

Does  the  master  love  the  slave  child  well, 
That  he  takes  away  in  his  house  to  dwell  1 
Does  he  teach  him  all  that  he  ought  to  know, 
And  wipe  his  tears  when  they  sometimes  flow — 
And  watch  beside  him  in  sickness  and  pain, 
Till  health  comes  back  to  his  cheek  again — 
And  kneel  each  night  by  his  side  to  pray, 
That  God  will  keep  him  through  life's  rough  way? 
Alas,  no,  my  child. 

Ah,  then  must  the  tales  I  have  heard  be  true, 
Of  the  cruel  things  that  the  masters  do  ; 
That  the  poor  slaves  often  must  creep  to  bed, 
On  their  scatter'd  straw,  but  scantily  fed ; 
Be  sometimes  loaded  with  heavy  chains  ; 
And  flogg'd  till  their  blood  the  keen  lash  stains ; 
While  none  will  care  for  their  bitter  cry, 
Or  soothe  their  hearts  when  their  grief  is  high. 
It  is  so,  my  child. 

And  is  it  not,  mother,  a  sinful  thing, 
The  bosoms  of  others  with  pain  to  wring — 
To  bid  them  go  labour  and  delve  the  soil, 
And  seize  the  reward  of  their  weary  toil — 
For  men  to  tear  men  from  their  homes  away, 
And  sell  them  for  gold,  like  a  lawful  prey ! 
Oh  surely  the  land  where  such  deeds  are  done, 
Must  be  a  most  savage  and  wicked  one ! 

It  is  this,  my  child. 


72  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 


THE  CHILD'S  EVENING  HYMN. 

Father !  while  the  daylight  dies, 
Hear  our  grateful  voices  rise : 
For  the  blessings  that  we  share, 
For  thy  kindness  and  thy  care, 
For  the  joy  that  fills  our  breast ; 
For  the  love  that  makes  us  blest, 

We  thank  thee,  Father. 

For  an  earthly  father's  arm, 
Shielding  us  from  wrong  and  harm ; 
For  a  mother's  watchful  cares, 
Mingled  with  her  many  prayers ; 
For  the  happy  kindred  band, 
'Midst  whose  peaceful  links  we  stand, 
We  bless  thee,  Father. 

Yet  while  'neath  the  evening  skies, 
Thus  we  bid  our  thanks  arise, 
Father !  still  we  think  of  those, 
Who  are  bow'd  with  many  woes, 
Whom  no  earthly  parent's  arm 
Can  protect  from  wrong  and  harm ; 
The  poor  slaves,  Father* 

Ah  !  while  we  are  richly  blest, 
They  are  wretched  and  distrest ! 
Outcasts  in  their  native  land, 
Crush'd  beneath  oppression's  hand, 
Scarcely  knowing  even  thee, 
Mighty  Lord  of  earth  and  sea  ! 

Oh,  save  them,  Father ! 

Touch  the  flinty  hearts,  that  long 
Have,  remorseless,  done  them  wrong ; 
Ope  the  eyes  that  long  have  been 
Blind  to  every  guilty  scene ; 
That  the  slave — a  slave  no  more — 
Grateful  thanks  to  thee  may  pour, 

And  bless  thee,  Father. 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET   CHANDLER.  73 


THE  ENFRANCHISED  SLAVES  TO  THEIR  BENEFACTRESS. 

OH,  blessings  on  thee,  lady !  we  could  lie 

Down  at  thy  feet,  in  our  deep  gratitude, 
And  give  ourselves  to  die, 

So  thou  could'st  be  made  happier  by  our  blood; 
Yet  life  has  never  seern'd  so  dear  as  now, 
That  we  may  lift  a  free,  unbranded  brow. 

In  the  deep  silence  of  the  starry  night, 

Our  lips  shall  call  down  blessings  on  thy  head; 

And  the  first  gush  of  light, 
That  in  its  splendour  o'er  the  world  is  spread, 

Shall  view  us  bow'd  in  prayer,  that  life  may  be 

A.  calm  and  sunny  day  of  joy  for  thee. 

Free !  free ! — how  glorious  'tis  to  lift  an  eye, 

Unblenching  beneath  infamy  and  shame, 
To  the  blue  boundless  sky, 

And  feel  each  moment  from  our  hearts,  the  tame 
Dull  pulses  of  our  vileness  pass  away, 
Like  sluggish  mists  before  the  rising  day. 

And  then  our  infants !  we  shall  never  see 

Their  young  limbs  cheapen'd  at  the  public  mart, 

Or  shrink  in  agony, 

To  view  them  writhe  beseath  the  cruel  smart 
Of  the  rude  lash ; — they  ne'er  like  us  shall  know 
The  slave's  dark  lot  of  wretchedness  and  woe. 

For  this  we  bless  thee,  lady !  and  may  Heaven 
Pour  down  its  frequent  blessings  on  thy  brow ; 

And  to  thy  life  be  given, 
Oft  through  its  sunset  hours,  such  bliss  as  now 
Is  swelling  round  thy  heart — scarce  less  than  theirs 
Who  pour  for  thee  their  deep  and  grateful  prayers. 
7 


74  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

SUMMER  MORNING. 

'T  is  beautiful,  when  first  the  dewy  light 
Breaks  on  the  earth !  while  yet  the  scented  air 
Is  breathing  the  cool  freshness  of  the  night, 
And  the  bright  clouds  a  tint  of  crimson  wear, 
Mix'd  with  their  fleecy  whiteness  ;  when  each  fair 
And  delicate  lined  flower  that  lifts  its  head 
Is  bathed  in  dainty  odours,  and  all  rare 
And  beautiful  things  of  nature  are  outspread, 
With  the  rich  flush  of  light  that  only  morn  can  shed. 

When  every  leafy  chalice  holds  a  draught 
Of  nightly  dew,  for  the  hot  sun  to  drink, 
When  streams  gush  sportively,  as  though  they  laugh'd 
For  very  joyousness,  and  seem  to  shrink, 
In  playful  terror  from  the  rocky  brink 
Of  some  slight  precipice — then  with  quick  leap, 
Bound  lightly  o'er  the  barrier,  and  sink 
In  their  own  whirling  eddy,  and  then  sweep 
With  rippling  music  on,  or  in  their  channels  sleep. 

While  lights  and  shades  play  on  them,  with  each  breath 
That  moves  the  calm  still  waters ;  when  the  fly 
Skims  o'er  the  surface,  and  all  things  beneath 
Gleam  brightly  through  the  flood,  and  fish  glance  by 
With  a  quick  flash  of  beauty — when  the  sky 
Wears  a  deep  azure  brightness— and  the  song 
Of  matin  gladness  lifts  its  voice  on  high, 
And  mingled  harmony  and  perfume  throng 
On  every  whispering  breeze  that  lightly  floats  along. — 

'T  is  sweet  to  wander  forth  at  such  an  hour, 
And  drink  the  spirit  of  its  loveliness  ; 
While  on  the  brow  no  shadowing  care-clouds  lower, 
And  on  strong  wing  the  free  thoughts  upward  press ; — 
Yet  there  are  those  whom  nature  cannot  bless, 
With  all  her  varied  beauty  ; — such  as  they, 
Whose  cup  is  drugg'd  with  pain  and  sore  distress, 
By  their  own  brother's  hand,  and  the  quench'd  ray 
Of  whose  lost  hopes  spreads  gloom  across  the  brightest  day. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  75 

Lo !  where,  like  cattle  driven  by  the  lash, 
Forth  to  their  wearying  task  in  groups  they  go ; 
The  mother,  lifting  up  her  hand,  to  dash 
The  tear-drops  from  her  cheek,  that  still  will  flow, 
As  on  her  ear  her  infant's  wail  comes  low, 
Yet  painfully  distinct ;  and  she  must  leave, — 
For  the  stern  overseer  wills  it  so — 
Her  tender  little  one  unsoothed,  to  grieve, 
Happy  to  clasp  it  safe  when  she  returns  at  eve. 

The  feeble  crone  who  on  her  knees  hath  borne 
Her  children's  grandchildren,  is  toiling  there; 
Young  forms,  and  weak  old  men,  whose  limbs  are  worn 
Nigh  to  the  grave — strong  men,  whose  bow'd  necks  bear 
Perchance  the  weight  of  heavy  irons,  that  wear 
Into  their  very  souls  ; — small  heed  has  he 
Who  tasks  them,  of  their  ills,  and  none  will  spare 
From  the  rude  scourge — nor  old  nor  infancy — 
Who  have  the  allotted  toil  perform'd  imperfectly. 

Oh  shame  upon  man's  selfishness !  that  so 
The  love  of  gold  should  canker  in  his  breast, 
Transforming  his  affection's  kindly  glow 
To  bitterness,  himself  into  a  pest 
Upon  the  earth,  the  scourge  of  the  oppress'd, 
And  tyrant  of  the  helpless. — Strange  that  they, 
Who  with  man's  high  capacities  are  blest, 
Should,  for  earth's  valueless  and  tinsel  clay, 
Thus  cast  the  priceless  jewels  of  their  souls  away. 


WASHINGTON   CITY   PRISON. 

THOU  dark  and  drear  and  melancholy  pile ! 
Who  seemest,  like  a  guilty  penitent, 
To  brood  o'er  horrors  in  thy  bosom  pent, 

Until  the  sunbeams  that  around  thee  smile, 
And  the  glad  breath  of  heaven,  have  become 
A  hatred  and  a  mockery  to  thy  gloom — 

Stern  fabric !  I  '11  commune  with  thee  awhile ! 


76  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

And  from  thy  hollow  echoes,  and  the  gale 

That  moans  round  thy  dark  cells,  win  back  the  tale 

Of  thy  past  history ;— give  thy  stones  a  tongue, 
And  bid  them  answer  me,  and  let  the  sighs 
That  round  thy  walls  so  heavily  arise, 

Be  vocal,  and  declare  from  whence  they  sprung ; 
And  by  what  passion  of  intense  despair — 
What  aching  throb  of  life  consuming  care, 

From  the  torn  heart  of  anguish  they  were  wrung. 

Receptacle  of  guilt !  hath  guilt,  alone, 

Stain'd  with  its  falling  tears  thy  foot-worn  floor, 
When  the  harsh  echo  of  the  closing  door 

Hath  died  upon  the  ear,  and  flinging  prone 
His  form  upon  the  earth,  thy  chilling  gloom 
Seem'd  to  the  wretch  the  sentence  of  his  doom — 

Say,  bear'st  thou  witness  to  no  heart-wrung  groan, 
Bursting  from  sinless  bosoms,  whom  the  hand 
Of  tyrant  power  hath  sever'd  from  the  band 

Of  the  earth's  holiest  and  dearest  things, 

And  thrust  amidst  thy  darkness  ?    Speak  !  declare 
If  only  the  rude  felon's  curse  and  prayer, 

Mix'd  with  wild  wail  and  wilder  laughter  rings 
Within  those  dreary  walls  ! — or  if  there  be 
No  spirit  fainting  there  with  agony, 

That  not  from  their  own  crimes,  but  foul  oppression  springs. 

Ha  !  am  I  answer'd  ? — in  that  startling  cry, 

Bursting  from  some  wild  breast,  with  anguish  riven, 
And  rising  up  to  register  in  heaven 

Its  blighting  tale  of  outrage — the  reply 
Was  heard  distinctly  terrible. — It  sprung 
From  a  sad  household  group,  who  wildly  clung 

Together,  in  their  frantic  agony, 

Till  they  were  torn  by  savage  hands  apart, 

Fond  arms  from  twining  arms,  and  heart  from  heart, 

Never  to  meet  again !  what  had  they  done, 
Thou  tool  of  avarice  and  tyranny  ! — 
That  they  should  thus  be  given  o'er  to  thee, 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  77 

And  thy  guilt-haunted  cells  ? — were  sire  and  son, 
Mother  and  babe,  all  partners  in  one  crime, 
As  dreadful  as  the  fate  that  through  all  time, 

Clings  to  them  with  a  grasp  they  may  not  shun  ? 

No ! — let  the  tale  be  spoken,  though  it  burn 
The  cheek  with  shame  to  breathe  it — let  it  go 
Forth  on  the  winds,  that  the  wide  globe  may  know 

Our  vileness,  and  the  rudest  savage  turn 
And  point,  with  taunting  finger,  to  the  spot 
Whereon  thou  standest ;  that  all  men  may  blot 

Our  name  with  its  deserved  taint,  and  spurn 
Our  vaunting  laws  of  justice  with  the  heel 
Of  low  contumely  ;  that  every  peal 

Of  triumph,  may  be  answer'd  with  a  shout 
Of  biting  mockery  ;  and  our  starry  flag, 
Our  glorious  banner  !  may,  dishonour'd,  drag 

Its  proud  folds  in  the  dust,  or  only  flout 
The  gales  of  heaven,  to  be  a  broader  mark 
For  scorn  to  spit  at — oh,  thou  depot  dark, 

Where  souls  and  human  limbs  are  meted  out, 

In  fiendish  traffic  : — no !  those  weeping  ones 
Have  done  no  evil — but  their  brother's  hand, 
Hath  rudely  burst  the  sacred  household  band, 

And  given,  with  heart  more  flinty  than  thy  stones, 
His  victims  to  thy  keeping,  and  thy  chains, 
Till  he  hath  sold  them  ! — they  within  whose  veins 

Blood  like  his  own  is  coursing,  and  whose  moans 
Are  torn  from  hearts  as  deathless  as  his  own  ! 
And  there  thou  stand'st ! — where  Freedom's  altar  stone 

Is  darkened  by  thy  shadows, — and  the  cry, 
That  thrills  so  fearfully  upon  the  air, 
With  its  wild  tale  of  anguish  and  despair, 

Blends  with  the  paeans  that  are  swelling  high, 
To  do  her  homage ! — I  have  sometimes  felt 
As  I  could  hate  my  country  for  her  guilt, — 

Until  in  bitter  tears  the  mood  went  by. 
7* 


78  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 


THE    SUNSET    HOUR. 

No  !  I  have  not  forgotten  yet  the  gentle  sunset  hour, 
That  comes  with  such  a  soothing  touch,  to  shut  the  bright- 
leaved  flower ; 

Nor  have  I  yet  forgotten  those,  who  shared  its  light  with  me, 
Amidst  a  scene  I  fondly  love,  though  distant  far  it  be. 

A  gleaming  of  its  parting  light  is  lingering  even  now, 
With  dim  and  faded  brilliancy,  around  my  lifted  brow ; 
While  memory  flings  aside  the  veil  that  hangs  o'er  parted  things, 
And  drives  the  shadow  from  the  past,  before  her  glancing  wings. 

I  seem  to  see  thee,  gentle  friend,  before  me  even  yet ! 
So  meekly  in  thy  wonted  place,  beside  the  casement  set, 
With  calm  still  brow  and  placid  eye  across  the  landscape  bent, 
Where  all  of  nature's  varied  charms  are  beautifully  blent. 

The  gliding  stream,  the  low  white  mill,  the  hill  upswelling  high, 
With  its  few  crowning  forest-trees  so  painted  on  the  sky ; 
The  vine-hung  crag,  the  shadowy  wood,  the  fields  of  tufted 

maize, 
And  emerald  meadow-slopes,  that  gleam  beneath  the  sunset 

rays. 

In  sooth,  it  is  a  lovely  scene ;  alas !  that  some  as  fair, 
Man's  lawless  selfishness  should  make  the  home  of  dark  despair. 
That  'midst  glad  nature's  purity,  the  bending  slave  should  tread, 
And  proud  oppression  o'er  the  earth  a  waste  of  anguish  spread  ! 

Hath  God's  rich  mercy  form'd  the  earth  so  beautifully  bright, 
For  man  to  wrap  his  brother's  soul  in  gloominess  and  night  1 
That  all  its  charms  must  be  unseen,  its  loveliness  unfelt, 
By  eyes  and  hearts  all  dimm'd  and  broke  by  cruelty  and  guilt. 

No  !  never  hath  he  meant  that  those,  within  whose  forms  are 

shrined 

The  rich  and  deep  capacities  of  an  undying  mind, 
Should  'neath  a  brother's  foot  be  crush'd,  be  loaded  with  his 

chains, 
And  drain,  to  feed  his  riot  waste,  the  life-blood  from  their  vein?- 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  79 

THE    DEVOTED. 


It  was  a  beautiful  turn  given  by  a  great  lady,  who  being  asked  where 
her  husband  was,  when  he  lay  concealed  for  having  been  deeply  concerned 
in  a  conspiracy,  resolutely  answered,  that  she  had  hidden  him.  This  con- 
fession caused  her  to  be  carried  before  the  governor,  who  told  her  that 
nought  but  confessing  where  she  had  hidden  him,  could  save  her  from  the 
torture.  "  And  will  that  do  ?"  said  she.  "  Yes,"  replied  the  governor, "  I 
will  pass  my  word  for  your  safety,  on  that  condition."  "  Then,"  replied 
she,  "  I  have  hidden  him  in  my  heart,  where  you  may  find  him." 


STERN  faces  were  around  them  bent,  and  eyes  of  vengeful  ire, 
And  fearful  were  the  words  they  spake  of  torture,  stake,  and 

fire : 
Yet  calmly  in  the  midst  she  stood,  with  eye  undimm'd  and 

clear, 
And  though  her  lip  and  cheek  were  white,  she  wore  no  sign 

of  fear. 

"  Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  ?"   they  said ; — a  half-form'd 

smile  of  scorn, 

That  curl'd  upon  her  haughty  lip,  was  back  for  answer  borne ; — 
"  Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  ?"  again,  in  fiercer  notes,  they 

said, 
And  sternly  pointed  to  the  rack,  all  rusted  o'er  with  red ! 

Her  heart  and  pulse  beat  firm  and  free — but  in  a  crimson  flood, 
O'er  pallid  lip  and  cheek  and  brow,  rush'd  up  the  burning  blood ; 
She  spake,  but  proudly  rose  her  tones,  as  when  in  hall  or  bower, 
The  haughtiest  chief  that  round  her  stood  had  meekly  own'd 
their  power ; 

"  My  noble  lord  is  placed  within  a  safe  and  sure  retreat" — 
"  Now  tell  us  where,  thou  lady  bright,  as  thou  wouldst  mercy 

meet, 

Nor  deem  thy  life  can  purchase  his — he  cannot  'scape  our  wrath, 
For  many  a  warrior's  watchful  eye  is  placed  o'er  every  path. 

"  But  thou  may'st  win  his  broad  estates  to  grace  thine  infant 

heir, 
And  life  and  honour  to  thyself,  so  thou  his  haunts  declare." 


80  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart ;  her  eye  flash'd  proud  and 

clear, 
And  firmer  grew  her  haughty  tread — "  My  lord  is  hidden  here  ! 

"  And  if  ye  seek  to  view  his  form,  ye  first  must  tear  away, 
From  round  his  secret  dwelling  place  these  walls  of  living  clay !" 
They  quail'd  beneath  her  haughty  glance,  they  silent  turn'd 

aside, 
And  left  her  all  unharm'd  amidst  her  loveliness  and  pride ! 


DEAF   AND    DUMB. 

HER  face  was  sweetly  serious  ;  yet  a  smile 

Was  cradled  in  the  dimple  of  her  cheek, 

As  if  it  waited  but  the  frequent  call, 

To  spring  to  the  red  lip.     I  spoke  to  her, 

And  listen'd  for  the  music-breathing  tones 

Of  childhood's  laughing  voice — she  answer'd  not, 

Nor  raised  the  fringes  of  her  deep  blue  eyes ; — 

And  then  they  told  me  that  the  gushing  fount 

Of  all  her  young  affections  was  seal'd  up. — 

That  young  bright  lip  was  voiceless ;  and  the  heart 

Sprang  not  in  blessedness  to  the  deep  tones 

Of  thrilling  tenderness — the  soul  was  shut — 

And  all  the  spirit's  wild  imaginings 

Thrown  back  in  darkness — like  the  flowers  that  spring 

Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  winter's  snow. 


THE    ANOINTING. 

THE  moon  had  risen. — Light  was  o'er  the  world 
With  all  the  freshness  of  the  early  day. 
The  feathery  clouds  that  floated  in  the  east, 
Wore  a  faint  tinge  of  crimson,  and  the  voice 
Of  forest  music  ;  and  a  scented  breath, 
Of  dewy  flowers,  came  onward  through  the  air. 
The  men  of  Bethlehem  were  gather'd  round 
The  altar  of  their  God ;  and  the  deep  tones 
Of  Samuel's  voice  arose  in  solemn  prayer ; 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  81 

The  smoke  curl'd  upwards  from  the  sacrifice, 

In  cloudy  volumes  first,  then  thin  and  slow, 

Until  the  last  faint  wreath  had  disappear'd. 

The  prophet  rose,  and  standing  in  the  midst, 

Stretch'd  out  his  hands  and  bless'd  them — and  then  spake — 

"  Thou,  Jesse,  son  of  Obed,  of  the  tribe 

Of  lion  Judah — hearken  to  my  voice  : 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord :  '  From  Saul's  anointed  brow, 

And  from  his  hand,  and  those  of  all  his  sons, 

The  kingly  sceptre  and  the  crown  shall  pass, 

As  though  he  was  not  chosen  of  the  Lord.' 

So  cause  thy  sons  to  pass  before  mine  eyes, 

That  I  may  consecrate  whom  God  hath  chosen 

To  gift  with  Judah's  kingly  diadem." 

Then  came  Eliab  forth,  the  first,  and  stood 

Before  the  Prophet.     His  proud  head  was  bow'd, 

And  his  cross'd  hands  were  folded  on  his  breast, 

In  mute  unwonted  reverence  ;  yet  even  thus, 

His  haughty  brow  above  the  mightiest  tower'd, 

As  he  were  born  to  be  a  conqueror. 

There  was  a  speaking  beauty  in  his  face, 

And  the  bright  glorious  eye  that  flash'd  beneath 

His  clustering  curls  of  sable  seem'd  to  tell 

Of  a  high  spirit  that  could  plan  bold  deeds, 

Which  that  strong  arm  would  joy  to  execute. 

The  Prophet  gazed,  and  said  within  his  heart, 

"  Surely,  the  Lord's  anointed  is  before  him  !" 

But  in  the  still  small  voice  Jehovah  spake 

Unto  the  Prophet's  ear. — "  Regard  not  thou 

The  beauty  of  his  countenance,  nor  yet 

His  stature,  nor  the  majesty  thereof; 

For  him  have  I  rejected.     The  Most  High 

Sees  not  as  mortal ;  but  the  secret  heart 

Is  open  all  before  him,  and  its  sins, 

And  its  infirmities,  he  knoweth  all." 

Then  came  Eliab's  brethren,  one  by  one, 

And  Samuel  look'd  upon  them,  but  he  knew 

The  chosen  from  the  people  was  not  there. 

Then  David  came,  e'en  from  his  fleecy  charge, 

Himself  as  innocent,  and  knelt  him  down 

Before  the  Prophet.     He,  that  young  fair  boy, 

His  mother's  treasured  one,  who  had  but  left 


82  POETICAL    WOEKS    OF 

Her  fond  maternal  side,  to  lay  him  down 

On  the  flower-studded  bank,  and  watch  the  wave 

Glide  on  in  laughing  ripples  at  his  feet, 

While  his  white  lambs  were  sporting  on  the  grass. 

Why  should  the  Prophet  look  on  him,  as  though 

He  might  be  chosen  to  be  Israel's  king  1 

He  was  most  beautiful !     His  timid  eye, 

With  boyish  wonder  mix'd  with  holy  awe, 

Through  its  bright  veil  of  golden  curls  look'd  up 

With  a  long  gaze  to  Samuel's  quiet  face ; 

And  feelings  wrought  intensely,  had  spread  out 

A  warmer  flush  upon  his  downy  cheek. 

The  prophet  look'd  upon  the  kneeling  boy, 

So  young — so  fair — those  parted  lips  e'en  now 

Scarcely  refraining  from  their  wonted  smiles — 

The  dimple  sporting  on  his  rosy  cheek, 

The  snowy  brow  half  shaded  by  his  hair, 

And  those  dark  eyes,  so  bright,  so  beautiful, — - 

And  a  strange  thrilling  gush  came  o'er  his  heart 

Even  to  starting  tears.     Could  this  be  he, 

For  whom  the  Lord  would  break  the  power  of  Saul  ? 

He  felt  that  it  was  so — and  lifting  up 

His  horn  of  sacred  oil,  anointed  him, 

To  be  the  servant  of  the  Holy  One. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  PRAYER. 


Garden,  in  his  "  Anecdotes  of  the  Revolution,"  when  describing  the 
sufferings  of  the  army,  mentions  the  circumstance  of  a  soldier  having 
earnestly  entreated  permission  to  visit  his  family,  which  was  refused,  on 
the  ground  that  the  same  favour  must  be  granted  to  others,  who  could  not 
be  spared  without  weakening  the  army,  whose  strength  was  already  re- 
duced by  sickness.  He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  the  denial,  but  added, 
that  to  him  refusal  would  be  death.  He  was  a  brave  and  valuable  soldier, 
and  apparently  in  health  at  the  time ; — but  his  words  were  verified. 


I  CARE  not  for  the  hurried  march  through  August's  burning 

noon, 
Nor  for  the  long  cold  ward  at  night,  beneath  the  dewy  moon  j 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  83 

I  've  calmly  felt  the  winter's  storms,  o'er  my  unshelter'd  head, 
And  trod  the  snow  with  naked  foot,  till  every  track  was  red ! 

My  soldier's  fare  is  poor  and  scant — 't  is  what  my  comrades 

share, 

Yon  heaven  my  only  canopy — but  that  I  well  can  bear ; 
A  dull  and  feverish  weight  of  pain  is  pressing  on  my  brow, 
And  I  am  faint  with  recent  wounds— for  that  I  care  not  now. 

But  oh,  I  long  once  more  to  view  my  childhood's  dwelling-place, 
To  clasp  my  mother  to  my  heart — to  see  my  father's  face ! 
To  list  each  well-remember'd  tone,  to  gaze  on  every  eye 

That  met  my  ear,  or  thrill'd  my  heart,  in  moments  long  gone  by. 

• 

In  vain  with  long  and  frequent  draught  of  every  wave  I  sip, — 
A  quenchless  and  consuming  thirst  is  ever  on  my  lip ! 
The  very  air  that  fans  my  cheek  no  blessed  coolness  brings, — 
A  burning  heat  or  chilling  damp  is  ever  on  its  wings. 

Oh !  let  me  seek  my  home  once  more — for  but  a  little  while — 
But  once  above  my  couch  to  see  my  mother's  gentle  smile ; 
It  haunts  me  in  my  waking  hours — 't  is  ever  in  my  dreams, 
With  all  the  pleasant  paths  of  home,  rocks,  woods,  and  shaded 
streams. 

There  is  a  fount, — I  know  it  well — it  springs  beneath  a  rock, 
Oh,  how  its  coolness  and  its  light,  my  feverish  fancies  mock ! 
I  pine  to  lay  me  by  its  side,  and  bathe  my  lips  and  brow, 
'T  would  give  new  fervour  to  the  heart  that  beats  so  languid  now. 

I  may  not — I  must  linger  here — perchance  it  may  be  just ! 
But  well  I  know  this  yearning  soon  will  scorch  my  heart  to  dust ; 
One  breathing  of  my  native  air  had  call'd  me  back  to  life — 
But  I  must  die — must  waste  away  beneath  this  inward  strife 


THE  APPEAL  OF  THE  CHOCTAW. 

WE  cannot  leave  our  fathers'  land ! 

We  cannot  leave  our  fathers'  graves ! 
The  long-loved  hills  that  round  us  stand — 

Our  valleys)  with  their  pleasant  waves. 


84  POETICAL   WORKS    OP 

Oh,  bid  us  not  to  trace  afar, 
The  pathway  of  the  evening  star ; 
We  cannot  find,  where'er  we  roam, 
A  spot  which  bears,  like  this,  the  name  of  home ! 

What  though  the  western  forest  rise, 

More  tall,  more  darkly  close,  than  these ; 
And  calm  the  stately  wild  deer  lies, 

In  slumber  'neath  the  stately  trees ; — 
Though  hill  and  vale  are  passing  fair, 
And  all  seems  bright  and  lovely  there, 
We  cannot  love  the  beauteous  spot, 
To  us  the  great  Manitto  gave  it  not ! 

What  care  we  for  those  prairies  wide  ? 

Our  fathers  never  hunted  there  ; — 
Those  cavern  echoes  ne'er,  in  pride, 

Flung  back  their  wild  halloo  of  war. 
Those  wooded  glens,  and  shaded  streams, 
Came  never  to  our  childhood's  dreams  ; 
Nor  have  we,  in  our  young  hearts'  glee, 
Loved,  like  familiar  friends,  each  rock  and  tree. 

But  here,  amid  the  tempest's  rush, 

Our  spirit  fathers'  voices  thrill ! 
They  come  at  midnight's  moonlit  hush, 

Or  when  the  eve-star  lights  the  hill. 
The  thoughts  of  other  times  are  spread 
O'er  every  gray  crag's  misty  head ; — 
And  how  then  can  we  lightly  leave 
The  scenes  to  which  our  hearts  so  fondly  cleave  ? 

Then  have  we  not  in  worship  bow'd, 

Before  your  God,  the  humbled  head? 
And  tamed  our  spirits,  fierce  and  proud, 

To  till  our  hunting  grounds  for  bread? 
And  now,  that  in  our  bosom's  cell, 
A  white  man's  calmer  soul  would  dwell, 
You  seek  to  grasp  our  planted  soil, 
And  drive  us  hence,  in  distant  lands  to  toil ! 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  S5 

Oh,  white  men  !  ye  have  fair  smooth  brows, 
And  lips  whose  words  we  well  might  trust, 

But  treachery  mingles  in  your  vows, 
Your  chain  of  friendship  is  but  dust ! 

Ye  come  with  falsehood  in  your  hearts, 

Ye  frame  your  laws  with  wily  arts, 

And  bid  us  'neath  their  shades  to  dwell, 
That  we  may  wither  by  their  blighting  spell ! 


NOAH. 

THE  ark  was  resting  on  the  mountain's  side, 
And  those  who  dwelt  beneath  its  sheltering  veil, 
Look'd  forth  upon  the  earth — that  sight  denied 
Their  anxious  gaze  so  long ! — their  cheeks  grew  pale 
As  Noah  moved  the  covering  from  their  frail, 
Yet  safe  abode  of  refuge ;  for  they  thought 
Of  those  dark  hours,  when,  ever  on  the  gale, 
The  voice  of  ruin  and  despair  was  brought, 
Telling  how  wide  a  scathe  destruction's  hand  had  wrought. 

And  now  they  look'd  abroad  upon  the  scene 
With  a  sick,  painful  interest,  and  a  dread 
Of  seeing — what  till  now  had  only  been 
A  picture  of  their  thoughts— before  them  spread 
In  all  its  dark  reality.     The  dead, 
The  guilty  dead,  seem'd  rising  to  their  sight, 
As  when  in  sinful  happiness,  their  tread 
Pass'd  gayly  o'er  the  earth,  ere  that  long  night 
Of  utter  darkness  pass'd  above  them  with  its  blight. 

Then  how  could  those  lone  dwellers  of  the  earth — 
The  only  rescued — how  could  they  but  weep  ? 
What  though  the  lost  ones,  in  their  guilty  mirth, 
Had  mock'd  their  pious  prayers,  and  wrought  them  deep 
And  sore  affliction  ?     In  one  whelming  sweep, 
The  wrath  of  God  had  crush'd  them !  and  could  now 
The  righteous  triumph  o'er  their  dreamless  sleep? 
But  Noah — only  he — upraised  his  brow, 
As  if  his  spirit  could  be  moved  by  nought  below. 
8 


86  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

And  yet  the  green  earth  bore  but  little  trace 
Of  its  late  ravage ; — scatter'd  here  and  there, 
The  wreck  of  some  proud  palace,  or  a  place 
Of  their  vain  worship — with  their  pillars  fair, 
Grown  o'er  with  sea-weed,  and  their  treasures  rare, 
Gone  to  the  ocean  caverns  ; — but  the  light 
Of  the  rich  sunset  melted  through  an  air, 
All  fill'd  with  odours  from  a  world  as  bright 
As  though  it  only  waked  in  freshness  from  the  night. 

So  thus  they  trod  the  silent  world  once  more, — 
Its  only  habitants  ! — all  gather'd  there, 
And  praising  Him  who  bade  the  waters  pour 
Their  whelming  floods  around  them,  and  yet  spare 
The  cherish'd  few  whom  he  had  made  his  care, 
And  shielded  with  his  love.     And  thus  they  grew, 
Peaceful  and  calm,  and  hymns  rose  on  the  air 
In  grateful  joyfulness  ;  for  then  they  knew 
That  all  that  scathe  had  pass'd  forever  from  their  view. 


THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

THE  last  fading  sunbeam  has  sunk  in  the  ocean, 

And  darkness  has  shrouded  the  forest  and  hill  ; 
The  scenes  that  late  rang  with  the  battle's  commotion, 
Now  sleep  'neath  the  moonbeams  serenely  and  still ; 
Yet  light  misty  vapours  above  them  still  hover, 
And  dimly  the  pale  beaming  crescent  discover, 
Though  all  the  stern  clangour  of  conflict  is  over, 

And  hush'd  the  wild  trump-note  that  echoed  so  shrill. 

Around  me  the  steed  and  the  rider  are  lying, 

To  wake  at  the  bugle's  loud  summons  no  more — 
And  here  is  the  banner  that  o'er  them  was  flying, 

Torn,  trampled,  and  sullied,  with  earth  and  with  gore. 
With  morn — where  the  conflict  the  wildest  was  roaring,x 
Where  sabres  were  clashing,  and  death-shot  were  pouring, 
That  banner  was  proudest  and  loftiest  soaring — 
Now,  standard  and  bearer  alike  are  no  more ! 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  87 

All  hush'd !  not  a  breathing  of  life  from  the  numbers 

That  scatter'd  around  me  so  heavily  sleep, — 
Hath  the  cup  of  red  wine  lent  its  fumes  to  their  slumbers, 

And  stain'd  their  bright  garments  with  crimson  so  deep  ? 
Ah  no !  these  are  not  like  gay  revellers  sleeping, 
The  night-winds,  unfelt,  o'er  their  bosoms  are  creeping, 
Ignobly  their  plumes  o'er  the  damp  ground  are  creeping, 
And  dews,  all  uncared  for,  their  bright  falchions  steep. 

Bright  are  they  1  at  morning  they  were — ay,  at  morning, 

Yon  forms  were  proud  warriors,  with  hearts  beating  high, 
The  smiles  of  stern  valour  their  lips  were  adorning, 

And  triumph  flash'd  out  from  the  glance  of  their  eye ! 

But  now — sadly  alter'd,  the  evening  hath  found  them, 

They  care  not  for  conquest,  disgrace  cannot  wound  them, 

Distinct  but  in  name,  from  the  earth  spread  around  them, 

Beside  their  red  broad-swords,  unconscious,  they  lie. 

How  still  is  the  scene !  save  when  dismally  whooping, 

The  night-bird  afar  hails  the  gathering  gloom ; 
Or  a  heavy  sound  tells  that  their  comrades  are  scooping 

A  couch,  where  the  sleepers  may  rest  in  the  tomb. 
Alas  !  ere  yon  planet  again  shall  be  lighted, 
What  hearts  shall  be  broken,  what  hopes  will  be  blighted, 
How  many,  'midst  sorrow's  dark  storm-clouds  benighted, 
Shall  envy,  e'en  white  they  lament,  for  their  doom. 

Oh  war !  when  thou  'rt  clothed  in  the  garments  of  glory, 

When  Freedom  has  lighted  thy  torch  at  her  shrine 
And  proudly  thy  deeds  are  emblazon'd  in  story, 

We  think  not,  we  feel  not,  what  horrors  are  thine. 
But  oh !  when  the  victors  and  vanquish'd  have  parted, 
When  lonely  we  stand  on  the  war-ground  deserted, 
And  think  on  the  dead,  and  on  those  broken-hearted, 
Thy  blood-sprinkled  laurel-wreath  ceases  to  shine. 


MOONLIGHT. 

THE  moon  hath  risen  o'er  the  silent  height 
Of  the  blue  vaulted  heaven — and  each  star 
Is  faintly  glimmering  in  its  silver  light, 
That  dimly  shows  the  mountain-tops  afar, 


88  POETICAL   WORKS    OP 

And  lights  the  fleecy  clouds  that,  floating  there, 
By  turns  obscure  its  brightness — while  around, 
The  spell  of  silence  hangs  o'er  earth  and  air ; 
And  not  a  rude  intruding  voice,  or  sound, 
Falls  on  the  ear,  or  mars  the  solitude  profound. 

Prompter  of  wild  imagination's  flight ! 
How  soft  the  witchery  that  enrobes  thy  beam, 
That  sheds  its  magic  o'er  the  gloom  of  night, 
And  wraps  the  soul  within  its  brightest  dream, 
Till  heaven  and  earth  are  mingled — and  we  seem, 
With  airy  beings  of  the  land  of  thought, 
To  hold  high  converse — till  we  almost  deem 
They  are  indeed  with  life  and  being  fraught, 
And  not  in  fancy's  wild  unreal  visions  wrought. 

Now  rise  the  treasured  thoughts  of  other  days, 
And  all  the  scenes  that  by- past  years  have  known ; 
And  memory  sheds  her  reminiscent  rays 
Around  the  hopes  and  pleasures  that  have  flown, 
And  gives  again  to  being  every  tone, 
That  once  like  music  on  our  pulses  thrill'd ; 
When  childhood's  gaiety  was  all  our  own, 
And  even  tears,  like  dew  in  flowers  distill'd, 
Gave  brightness  to  the  dreams  that  hope  delights  to  build. 

Star-spangled  vault  of  glory  !  who  could  gaze 
With  coldness  or  with  carelessness  at  thee  7 
Or  view  the  earth  illumined  by  thy  rays, 
Nor  feel  the  spirit  for  a  moment  free 
From  all  terrestrial  feelings  ? — Can  it  be 
That  in  yon  spheres  translated  spirits  dwell? 
It  may  be  fancy's  whisper — but  to  me 
It  sounds  scarce  strangely — though  we  may  not  tell 
Of  what  awaits  beyond  our  shortly  pealing  knell. 


PHARAOH. 

THUS  saith  Jehovah  !  let  this  people  go ! 

The  king  was  on  his  throne  array'd  all  gorgeously, 

In  regal  purple  rich  with  fretted  gold, 


MARGARET   ELIZABETH    CHANDLER.  89 

And  starr'd  with  sparkling  gems,  while  snowy  lawn 
Was  mingling  with  its  folds  luxuriously. 
The  crown  of  Egypt  was  upon  his  brow, 
And  her  proud  sceptre  was  beside  his  hand. 
The  nobles  of  his  land  were  gather'd  round, 
Thronging  the  proud  pavilion  where  he  sate ; 
And  the  wise  men,  the  Magi  of  the  East, 
The  Priests,  the  Soothsayers,  Astrologers, 
And  the  most  cunning  sorcerers,  were  there. 

And  also,  there,  apart  from  all  the  rest, 

Yet  even  at  the  foot  of  Pharaoh's  throne, 

Two  men  array'd  in  humble  garments  stood. 

One  spoke  not,  but  with  meekly  folded  arms, 

Awaited  silently  the  king's  decree. 

His  form  was  finely  moulded,  and  his  face 

Had  much  expressive  beauty,  though  his  eye 

Spoke  with  a  sadden'd  feeling — and  his  brow, 

Amid  the  clustering  curls  that  shaded  it,    / 

Told  that  the  freshness  of  his  youth  had  pass'd. 

The  other  form  was  taller,  and  his  limbs 

Were  nerved  to  manlier  strength — his  bold  dark  eye 

Sent  its  proud  glances  round  him  fearlessly ; 

While  with  his  mantle  gather'd  o'er  his  breast, 

And  his  right  arm  extended  as  he  spake, 

He  pour'd  his  eloquence  to  Pharaoh's  ear. 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord  Jehovah,  God  Omnipotent ! 
Let  thou  this  people  go — their  wives,  their  children, 
Their  herds  of  cattle,  and  their  snowy  flocks, — 
And  whatsoe'er  belongeth  unto  them, 
Shall  with  themselves,  unransom'd,  all  be  free. 
Say  not  within  thy  heart,  as  thou  hast  said, 
That  his  unchanging  will  shall  pass  away, 
And  yet  be  unaccomplish'd  ;  nor  yet  hope 
With  words  deceitful  to  evade  his  purpose. 
Why  should'st  thou  war  with  Heaven  1  can  thy  weak  arm 
Cope  with  His  wrathful  strength,  who  wields  the  thunder, 
And  looketh  on  the  wide  extended  earth, 
Even  as  a  little  thing? — Thy  heart  is  raised, 
Yea,  lifted  up  in  pride  and  vanity, 
8* 


90  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

For  thine  exalted  power  and  high  estate — 
But  know'st  thou  not  that  He  who  raiseth  up, 
Can  bring  thee  low  e'en  to  the  very  dust, 
And  change  thy  glory  into  emptiness  ? 
Then  waken  not  the  terrors  of  His  wrath, 
Nor  scorn  his  mandate — let  this  people  go !" 

But  Pharaoh  harden'd  still  his  heart,  till  God, 
With  a  high  hand,  brought  out  his  chosen  people, 
And  whelm'd  the  might  of  Egypt  in  the  wave. 

Oh  ye !  who  still  in  cruel  bondage,  worse 

Than  e'en  the  Egyptian,  hold  the  ill-starr'd  slave, 

Do  ye  not  dread  that  God's  long  slumbering  wrath 

At  length  will  pour  its  terrors  upon  you  ? 

Are  slavery  and  oppression  aught  more  just 

Than  in  the  days  of  Moses  ? — and  if  not, 

With  how  much  deeper  hue  does  the  dark  stain 

Attach  itself  to  you,  who  proudly  bear 

The  name  of  Christians — and  declare  yourselves 

The  servants  of  the  perfect  law  of  Him, 

Who  died  upon  the  cross !  is  slavery  just? 

Ye  dare  not  say  it  is— ye  dare  not  say 

The  Negro  is  not  God's  own  heritage, 

The  work  of  His  own  hand — one  flesh,  one  blood, 

With  you  who  crush  him  to  the  very  earth  ! 

What,  is  it  just  that  a  white  skin  should  give 

To  man  the  power  to  tyrannize  o'er  man? 

That  hundreds  of  the  human  race  should  toil, 

To  feed  the  wealth  and  luxury  of  one — 

A  scanty  sustenance  their  only  meed? 

Yet  in  this  age  of  intellectual  light, 

And  high  profession  of  religious  faith, 

Even  now  there  are  (-may  Heaven  forgive  them)  those, 

So  wholly  lost  to  what  they  owe  themselves, 

Their  country,  and  their  God,  that  they  would  lift 

Their  voice  -in  favour  of  the  wrong,  and  e'en  pollute 

The  very  Senate-House  with  arguments 

For  the  vile  cause  of  slavery — Oh  shame — 

Shame  on  them  tenfold  ! — did  not  their  hot  breath 

Spread  a  foul  gangrene  o'er  the  very  walls, 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  91 

Like  the  dark  plague-spot  on  the  Jewish  tents, 
In  days  of  old  ?  what,  freemen  !  will  ye  bear 
To  be  insulted  thus,  upon  the  spot 
That  of  all  others,  like  a  polish'd  mirror, 
Should  be  o'erclouded  by  the  slightest  breath 
That  spoke  of  stern  oppression  ?  rouse  ye,  rouse, 
And  tear  the  veil  of  blindness  from  your  eyes ! 
Deceive  yourselves  no  longer  with  false  dreams 
Of  wealth  and  interest — look  upon  the  North — 
Is  she  not  rich  and  prosperous  as  yourselves  ? 
And  yet  no  slave  is  there — no  hapless  wretch, 
To  blight  the  soil  with  curses  and  hot  tears. 

But  do  you  say  that  you  lament  the  evil, 

But  that  ye  made  it  not,  nor  is  your  power 

Efficient  for  the  cleansing  of  the  stain, 

Though  you  should  gladly  lend  your  aid  therein, 

If  but  the  path  were  open  ? — then  awake ! 

No  longer  sit  with  idly  folded  hands, 

And  conscience  lull'd  securely  into  rest, 

Until  destruction  with  a  voice  of  thunder, 

Break  on  your  guilty  torpor — Oh,  beware ! 

And  harden  not  your  hearts  like  ancient  Pharaoh, 

Lest  a  worse  fate  than  even  his  befal  you. 

And  you,  friends  of  the  cause  of  liberty, 

Shrink  not,  though  you  be  straiten'd  in  your  course, 

Even  as  was  Israel  at  the  Red  Sea  wave. 

Nerve  every  faculty — call  every  means, 

And  every  energy  of  heart  and  mind 

Forth  into  action — summon  up  your  strength, 

Ply  argument,  persuasion,  eloquence, — 

Bear  patiently  with  deeply  rooted  feelings, 

Of  prejudice,  self-interest,  and  all  else, 

That  may  have  twined  round  your  opponents'  hearts ; 

Yet  combat  still,  remove  and  overpower  them, 

Until  no  longer  o'er  the  smiling  land, 

Is  heard  the  voice  of  tyranny,  and  all 

Who  breathe  the  same  pure  air  alike  are  free : 


POETICAL    WORKS    OF 


So  may  God  bless  you  !  and  the  franchised  slave, 
Remember  only  in  his  grateful  prayers, 
That  he  has  ever  drain'd  oppression's  cup, 
And  that  he  owes  his  liberty  to  you. 


THE  DEPTHS  OF  THE  SEA. 

DEPTHS  of  the  fathomless  sea, 

What  do  you  hold  in  your  caves  ? 
Motionless  hearts  that  bounded  free, 
And  many  a  costly  argosie, 

That  gallantly  rode  on  your  waves  ? 

Yes  !  motionless  hearts  are  there, 

And  many  a  glassy  eye — 
And  many  a  gem  of  price  ye  bear, 
Ingots  of  gold  and  spices  rare, 

That  in  the  salt  wave  lie. 

Oh,  if  the  dead  could  speak, 

What  a  tale  might  ye  unfold ! 
Of  the  roaring  surge  and  the  blanching  cheek, 
Of  the  crashing  mast,  and  the  one  wild  shriek, 

As  the  waters  over  them  roll'd ! 

The  weary  sailor  sleeps 

In  your  beautiful  coral  bowers  ; 
The  polar  star  its  night  ward  keeps, 
But  he  heeds  it  riot — and  his  loved  one  weeps, 

As  she  counts  the  wearisome  hours. 

The  cheek  of  beauty  is  there, 

But  its  blush  has  faded  away — 
The  sea-weed  wraps  what  was  once  so  fair, 
And  the  water-snake  twines  with  her  flowing  hair, 

As  though  it  but  mock'd  her  decay. 

The  speaking  eye  is  dim, 

That  flash'd  with  its  glance  of  light — 
The  youth  drank  of  life's  cup,  while  joy  bathed  its  brim, 
But  the  long  draught  of  bitterness  was  not  for  him, 

And  the  pride-curl'd  lip  is  white ! 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  93 

The  young  and  the  old  are  there, 

The  coward  heart  and  the  brave — 
Those  to  whom  life  in  her  morning  shone  fair, 
And  those  who  were  wasted  with  cankering  care, 

The  freeman,  the  tyrant,  the  slave. 

The  infant  is  there,  with  the  light 

Of  his  innocent  smile  round  his  brow ; 
He  laugh'd  when  the  foam  on  that  pitiless  night, 
Curl'd  o'er  the  rude  wave  with  its  sparkles  of  light — 

But  his  blue  eye  is  slumbering  now. 

And  there  is  the  beautiful  bride, 

Still  entwined  in  her  lover's  last  grasp ; 
The  warrior  rests  with  his  foe  by  his  side, 
And  the  mother  yet  seems,  in  her  matronly  pride 

To  enfold  that  fair  boy  in  her  clasp. 

Ye  depths  of  the  billowy  sea ! 

How  many  a  tale  of  fear, 
Of  the  plunging  corse,  and  the  mutiny, 
And  the  blood-red  banner  of  piracy, 

Could  ye  tell  to  the  shuddering  ear ! 

And  of  how,  at  the  dead  of  night, 

The  captive  burst  his  chain, 
And  with  one  glance  at  the  moon's  fair  ligh 
Forever  he  sunk  from  the  tyrant's  sight — 

And  the  wave  roll'd  on  again. 

Oh,  ye  are  a  changeless  mystery — 

The  heavens  are  wreathed  in  flame, 
And  the  bark  is  toss'd  on  the  raging  sea, 
Or  the  sunbeam  smiles  with  its  breezes  free — 

But  ye  are  forever  the  same. 


THE  RECAPTURED  SLAVE. 

WOE  to  thee,  tyrant !  woe ! 
Does  that  white  brow  of  thine  which  shows  so  fair 
And  the  rich  tint  thy  cheek  is  wont  to  wear, 


94  POETICAL   WORKS   OF 

Make  thee  the  ruler  of  my  destiny? 

Or  does  thy  blood  more  freely  flow, 

Than  that  which  pours  so  madly  now, 
Along  my  burning  veins — that  thou  should'st  be 
The  favourite  of  fortune — proud  and  free — 

And  I  should  be  thy  slave — thy  vassal  ? — no  ! 

'T  is  true,  I  was  thy  slave — the  power  was  thine — 

And  thou  hadst  made  me  such — through  lingering  years, 
One  weary  task  of  ceaseless  toil  was  mine, 
Of  servitude  and  tears — 
But  didst  thou  think  no  kindly  glow, 

Could  warm  my  heart  to  joy  or  woe  ? 
Mistaken  fool !  I  heard  thee  name  a  name, 

That  rush'd  like  fire  along  my  burning  breast, 
And  from  that  instant  there  awoke  a  flame, 

That  ne'er  has  been,  and  ne'er  shall  be  suppressed — 
I  heard  the  glorious  name  of  liberty  ! 
And  from  that  hour  I  panted  to  be  free ! 

I  had  breathed  on — not  lived — in  recklessness, 

And  idle  dull  submission  to  my  fate  ; 
But  then  the  very  sunbeams  seem'd  to  press 

Upon  my  senses,  with  a  bitter  weight — 

As  though  they  spake  upbraidingly, 

That  all  around  me  should  be  free, 
And  I  should  be  so  vile — that  I  should  bow, 
And  tremble  at  the  gathering  of  thy  brow  ! 

I  once  had  loved  the  gushing  mirth 

Of  the  young  spring — when  bee,  flower,  bird, 
And  every  thing  upon  the  earth, 

Seem'd  fraught  with  joy — but  now,  one  word, 

One  only  word,  came  o'er  my  brain, 

Again,  again,  again, 
As  if  't  were  scorch'd  in  characters  of  flame 

And  that  one  word  was  Freedom  !  all  things  seem'd 
To  shape  their  voices  only  to  that  name-r- 

The  wild  bird's  joyous  song — the  fish  that  gleam'd 
Through  the  bright  flood — the  murmur  of  the  wave — 
Nay,  even  the  breath  of  heaven — methought  seem'd  whispering, 
Slave ! 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  95 

I  fled,  and  ere  another  set  of  sun, 

My  galling  chains  were  broken — I  was  free ! 

A  new,  a  bright  existence  was  begun — 
And  my  soul  knew  and  felt  its  potency. 

The  voice  of  eve  seem'd  sweeter  to  my  ears, 

And  all  things  brighter  to  my  eye — till  tears 
From  my  full  heart  gush'd  up  tumultuously— 

Wife,  children,  friends,  were  all  forgotten — all — 

I  only  felt  that  I  was  free  from  thrall. 

'Tis  over  now — and  I  once  more  am  thine — 

But  thinkest  thou  that,  having  known  the  bliss — 
That  though  one  moment  only  has  been  mine, 

I  will  live  on  in  servitude  like  this, 
And  wear  the  chains  of  bondage  1  tyrant,  no ! 
My  blood  be  on  thy  head !  woe  rest  upon  thee,  woe  ! 

Art  thou  my  master !  then  come  ask  the  wave, 

To  give  thee  back  thy  slave ! 


JEPHTHAH'S  VOW. 

THE  hostile  armies  still  were  hush'd  in  sleep, 
And  over  Gilead's  plain  hung  silence  deep  ; 
The  fading  watch-fires  dimly  gleam'd  from  far, 
Like  the  faint  radiance  of  some  sinking  star, 
And  rising  high  in  heaven,  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
Its  trembling  lustre  cast  o'er  bank  and  stream  : 
The  men  of  Israel  slept — but  in  his  tent, 
Their  chief  in  prayer  the  lingering  moments  spent. 
He  felt  how  less  than  vain  was  human  power, 
To  lend  him  succour  in  the  coming  hour, 
And  kneeling,  threw  aside  his  helm  and  sword, 
And  pour'd  his  soul  in  suppliance  to  the  Lord. 
"  Oh  thou  !  who  ridest  on  the  whirlwind's  wings, 
Jehovah  !  Judge  of  earth,  and  King  of  kings ! 
Be  pleased  from  thine  abiding  place  on  high, 
To  cast  on  Israel's  low  estate  thine  eye  ; 
Behold,  oh  Lord !  how  fallen  is  the  pride 
Of  her  who  once  the  nations  round  defied, 
When  thy  bright  pillar  was  her  shield  and  guide. 


96  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Lord !  she  hath  sinn'd — forgetful  of  thy  name, 

Hath  raised  to  other  gods  the  altar's  flame ; 

Unmindful  of  thy  mercies  she  has  knelt, 

And  join'd  in  prayer  with  those  that  round  her  dwelt ; 

But  God,  forgive  her — for  she  bends  the  knee, 

And  turns  in  tearful  penitence  to  thee  ; 

Her  cherish'd  idols  from  their  shrines  she  spurns, 

And  once  again  thy  holy  altar  burns. 

Forgive  her,  Lord  !  again  thy  grace  restore, 

And  in  her  wounds  thy  healing  balsam  pour ! 

How  long,  oh  Lord !  shall  Israel  bow  the  head, 

And  mourn  her  power  estranged,  her  glory  fled  ? 

How  long  shall  Zion's  daughters  weep  in  vain, 

The  best,  the  noblest,  of  thy  servants  slain  ? 

Behold'st  thou  not,  from  thine  abode  of  day, 

How  hath  the  spoiler  mark'd  her  for  a  prey  ? 

Arise,  arise  !  in  thy  returning  wrath, 

And  sweep  proud  Ammon  from  her  guilty  path ! 

Arise,  arise  !  thy  lamp  of  light  restore, 

And  on  thy  foes  thy  cup  of  vengeance  pour ! 

If  thou  who  hear'st  from  heaven  thy  servant's  prayer, 

Against  thy  foes  thy  vengeful  arm  wilt  bare, 

If  thou  wilt  nerve  my  arm,  and  edge  my  sword, 

That  death  and  slaughter  through  their  ranks  be  pour'd. 

When  homeward  with  exulting  shouts  I  turn, 

Unnumber'd  fires  shall  on  thine  altars  burn ; 

And  what  of  all  my  household  first  shall  be, 

To  greet  thy  servant,  shall  be  slain  for  thee !" 

Thus  Jephthah  pray'd — Jehovah  heard  his  prayer, 

And  gave  his  arm  to  triumph  in  the  war ; 

The  power  of  Ammon  was  subdued  and  slain, 

And  Israel  rescued  from  her  captive  chain. 

The  chieftain  turn'd  him  home  in  conquering  pride, 

His  helpless  captives  trembling  by  his  side, 

His  car  triumphal  with  proud  laurels  hung, 

And  songs  of  victory  around  him  sung. 

Yet  though  his  bosom  swell'd  with  conscious  pride, 

His  sinking  heart  in  secret  sadness  died  ; 


The  flush  of  triumph  faded  from  his  brow, 
With  memory  of  his  unaccomplish'd  vow ; 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  97 

Nor  were  his  bodings  false — as  near  he  drew, 
To  where  his  native  city  met  his  view, 
A  band  of  maidens  gaily  deck'd  with  flowers, 
The  brightest  blooming  in  their  roseate  bowers, 
With  timbrel,  dance,  and  song,  to  meet  him  came, 
In  numbers  wild,  proclaiming  Jephthah's  fame : 
And  while  his  bold  achievements  still  they  sung, 
Their  brightest  roses  in  his  path  they  flung. 
The  leader  of  that  band  of  joyous  girls 
Was  fairest  of  the  group — her  clustering  curls 
With  roses  wreath'd — the  cheek  of  blush  and  snow, 
The  ruby  lip,  the  eye's  expressive  glow, 
All  met  in  her — and  beam'd  more  brightly  fair, 
For  the  proud  feeling  that  had  call'd  her  there. 
She  forward  sprung,  to  meet  the  chief's  advance, 
And  first  on  her  was  pour'd  his  anxious  glance. 
That  martial  cavalcade,  that  pompous  show, 
What  were  they  to  his  anxious  spirit  now  1 
E'en  'midst  the  loud  acclaims  that  rent  the  air, 
He  tore  the  wreath  of  laurel  from  his  hair, 
And,  dashing  from  his  side  his  conquering  blade, 
He  sprang  to  earth,  to  meet  and  clasp  the  maid. 
"  My  child,  my  daughter  !"  wild  exclaim'd  the  chief, 
"  How  hast  thou  changed  my  triumph  into  grief ! 
How  hast  thou  now  become  as  one  of  those, 
Who  are  my  worst  tormentors  and  my  foes ! 
For  I  have  vow'd,  in  prayer  unto  the  Lord, 
If  he  would  nerve  my  arm  and  edge  my  sword, 
That  of  my  household,  what  first  met  my  eyes, 
Should  be  to  him  a  holy  sacrifice." 
The  maiden  heard,  and  one  convulsive  start 
Drove  back  the  gushing  life-blood  from  her  heart, 
While  with  blanch'd  cheek  and  vacant  eyes  she  stood, 
As  though  the  hand  of  death  had  chill'd  her  blood ; 
'T  was  but  a  moment — then  her  changing  eye, 
With  deep  fire  glowing,  spoke  her  purpose  high. 
"  Since  thou  hast  vow'd,  my  father,  to  the  Lord, 
Do  thou  with  me  according  to  thy  word  ; 
I  cannot  murmur  that  my  life  should  be 
An  offering,  thus,  for  Israel  and  for  thee  I" 
9 


98  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

The  maiden  died — and  long,  in  after  years, 
Did  Zion's  daughters  mourn  her  fate  with  tears. 


ANTHONY    BENEZET. 

FRIEND  of  the  Afric  !  friend  of  the  oppress'd  ! 

Thou  who  wert  cradled  in  a  far-off  clime, 
Where  bigotry  and  tyranny  unbless'd, 

With  gory  hand  defaced  the  page  of  time ; 
Wert  thou  forth  driven  by  their  stern  control, 

An  infant  fugitive  across  the  deep, 
To  teach,  in  after  years,  thy  pitying  soul 

O'er  all  the  Afric's  causeless  wrongs  to  weep, 
Where  slavery's  bitter  tears  the  flag  of  freedom  steep  ? 

And  thou  didst  nooly  plead  for  them ;  thy  heart, 

Thrilling  to  all  the  holy  sympathies, 
Of  natural  brotherhood,  wept,  to  see  the  mart 

Of  commerce,  with  its  human  merchandize, 
So  crowded  and  polluted,  and  thy  voice, 

With  the  clear  trumpet  tones  of  God's  own  word, 
Rang  through  the  guilty  crowd,  until  no  choice 

Was  leftlhem  but  to  tremble  as  they  heard, 
Or  bind  with  treble  seal  the  feelings  thou  hadst  stirr'd. 

The  ears  of  princes  heard  thee  ;  and  the  wise, 

Touch'd  by  the  mastery  of  thy  earnestness. 
Bade  their  train'd  spirits  for  a  while  to  rise 

From  their  profound  research,  and  learn  to  bless 
Thy  generous  efforts,  and  with  kindred  zeal, 

Led  on  by  thee  in  duty's  path  to  move ; 
And  kindled  by  thy  sacred  ardour,  feel, 

Like  thee,  that  overflowing  gush  of  love, 
That  lifts  man's  selfish  heart  all  narrow  thoughts  above. 

The  fetters  of  the  slave  are  still  unbroken  ; 

But  there  will  come,  perchance,  ere  long,  a  day, 
When  by  their  lips  who  wrong'd  him,  shall  be  spoken 

The  fiat  of  his  freedom  ; — and  the  ray 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  99 

Of  intellectual  light  shall  radiance  pour 

On  minds  o'er  which  the  gloom  of  darkness  hung 

In  treble  folds  impervious  before, 
By  tyrants'  hands  around  them  rudely  flung, 

To  bind  the  chains  that  to  both  limb  and  spirit  clung. 

Then  shall  their  children  learn  to  speak  thy  name, 

With  th<5  full  heart  of  gratitude,  and  know 
What  thou  hast  done  for  them ;  and  while  they  frame 
That  history  for  their  infants'  ears,  may  grow 

Perchance,  in  their  own  hearts,  the  likeness  strong 
Of  thy  bright  virtues  ;  so  thou  still  shalt  be, 
Even  in  thy  sepulchre,  their  friend  ; — and  long 

Shall  those  who  love  mankind,  remember  thee, 
Thou  noble  friend  of  those  who  pined  in  slavery. 


THE    SOLD. 

I  'LL  to  the  dance !  what  boots  it  thus, 

To  brood  o'er  ills  I  cannot  quell  ? 
Amid  the  revel  shout  of  mirth, 
My  bitter  laugh  shall  mingle  well. 

I  Ve  toil'd  beside  my  mates  to-day, 
To-night  we  '11  join  in  seeming  glee  ; 

But  when  we  part,  with  morning's  light, 
For  aye,  that  parting  glance  will  be. 

I  will  not  go  ! — this  fire  within, 

Would  choke  me  with  its  smother'd  flames  ! 
How  could  I  tell  the  dear  ones  there, 

Of  that  detested  tyrant's  claims  ? 

I  could  endure  the  fetter's  weight, 

That  I  have  borne  with  them  so  long, — 

But  not  to  wear  a  stranger's  chain, 

And  crouch  beneath  a  stranger's  thong. 

Yet  this  must  be  my  morrow's  fate ! 

To  part  with  all  that  gave  my  doom, 
Dark  as  it  was  and  desolate, 

A  ray  of  light  amidst  its  gloom. 


100  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

To  bear  the  scourge,  to  wear  the  chain, 
To  toil  with  wearied  heart  and  limb, 

Till  death  should  end  my  lengthen'd  pain, 
Or  worn  old  age  my  senses  dim  : — 

This  have  I  borne,  and  look'd  to  bear, 
All  bitter  as  such  lot  must  be ; 

But  drearier  still  my  life  must  wear, 
Beneath  a  stranger's  tyranny. 

Alas  !  't  would  be  a  happier  lot, 

If,  ere  to-morrow's  doom  shall  come, 

My  woes  and  wrongs  were  all  forgot, 
Amid  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 


GLOOM. 

Do  you  feel  sorrowful  ?    I  sometimes  do, 

When  busy  thought  tells  me  the  sufferings 

Of  some  in  our  south  land.     Their  brows  are  not 

So  fair  as  thine,  by  much,  but  yet  they  are 

Our  sisters,  for  the  mighty  God  hath  given 

To  them  the  boon  of  an  immortal  soul. 

Yet  they  are  made  through  life's  long  years  to  toil, 

Scourge-driven  like  the  brute  ;  and  with  the  fine 

And  delicate  pulses  of  a  human  heart, 

Stirring  to  anguish  in  their  bosoms,  sold ! 

Ay,  like  the  meanest  household  chattel,  sold ! 

Vended  from  hand  to  hand,  while  with  each  wrench 

Their  torn  hearts  bleed  at  every  throbbing  pore. 

Alas !  how  can  I  but  feel  sorrowful, 

To  think  upon  their  woes  ? 


EVENING   THOUGHTS. 

How  beautiful 

The  calm  earth  resteth  in  her  quiet  sleep  ! 
There  are  no  sounds  of  human  life  abroad, 
And  the  soft  voice  of  that  one  bird,  whose  plaint 
Melteth  upon  the  ear  so  soothingly, 
Seems  but  the  low  breeze  moulded  into  sound. 


ELIZABETH  MABGAfcET 

The  shadows  of  the  trees  distinctly  lie 
Upon  the  earth  unstirring,  and  no  breath 
Comes  whispering  among  the  tender  leaves, 
To  wake  them  into  playfulness. 

The  sky 

Bendeth  in  loveliness  above  the  earth, 
With  a  few  clouds  drawn  o'er  it,  beautiful 
In  the  soft  light,  and  exquisitely  pure, 
As  if  they  knew  no  other  home  than  heaven. 
Oh,  thus  it  is,  God  of  the  universe ! 
That  thou  wouldst  sanctify  with  thy  rich  grace, 
Our  erring  human  hearts,  that  we  might  be, 
When  from  the  earth  our  day  of  life  hath  pass'd, 
Dwellers  in  that  bright  world  where  all  are  pure — 
A  world  where  sorrow  cometh  not,  nor  sin, 
Nor  the  down-stooping  'neath  the  oppressor's  hand. 
Alas  !  that  earthly  things  should  be  so  fair, 
And  day  by  day  harmoniously  move  on 
In  their  allotted  course,  at  thy  command, 
Dutiful  and  unwavering  from  their  track, 
And  man,  man  only,  who  alone  may  know 
How  beautiful  thy  ordinances  are, 
Mock  at  thy  holy  will,  and  mar  his  soul 
With  the  dark  stains  of  sin.     Alas  !  that  man, 
With  thy  pure  law  unveil'd  before  his  eyes, 
Should  bind  the  fetter  on  his  brother's  form, 
And  smite  him  with  the  scourge,  and  bid  him  pour 
His  strength  out  on  the  earth,  for  no  reward  ; 
And  worse  than  this,  wrench  from  his  bleeding  heart 
The  dearest  objects  of  his  earthly  love ; 
And  all  that  the  oppressor's  hoards  may  flow 
With  Mammon's  worthless  treasures ;  meagre  dust, 
Beside  the  priceless  treasure  of  a  .soul ! 
Shall  it  be  ever  thus  ?    Most  Merciful ! 
Will  man's  hard  heart  be  never  touch'd  with  all 
The  o'erflowings  of  thy  love,  and  yield  itself 
To  gentle  sympathies,  till  he  shall  learn 
The  noble  joy  of  pouring  happiness 
Upon  the  heart  of  sorrow,  and  how  sweet 
The  pleasure  is  of  shedding  bliss  abroad. 
9* 


102  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 


STORM. 

THE  tempest  mounts  the  sky  !  with  hurrying  sweep, 
Driving  across  the  heavens,  cloud  on  cloud, 
Which  ever  and  anon  the  lightnings  steep 
In  a  red  glare  of  flame,  as  they  were  proud 
To  make  more  visible  the  gloomy  shroud, 
That  wraps  the  thunders  : — Now  its  might  is  nigh  ! 
And  faster  peal  and  flame  alternate  crowd, 
And  the  loosed  winds  sweep  onward  fearfully, 
Outpouring  on  the  earth  the  fountains  of  the  sky. 

'T  is  terrible — yet  most  sublimely  grand  ! 
Magnificently  awful  !  how  the  heart 
Shrinks  from  all  earthly  splendour,  as  we  stand, 
And  view  the  pomp  of  the  proud  storm — I  start, 
As  the  fork'd  flames  their  glance  of  brightness  dart, 
Yet  scarce  in  terror,  for  the  tempest's  might, 
Yields  of  its  own  sublimity  a  part, 
To  the  wrapt  thoughts,  and  urges  up  their  flight, 
With  free  and  eagle  wing,  above  their  wonted  height. 

Yet  soon  to  stoop  again — the  green  earth  lies 
Spread  out  before  me,  and  the  heart  will  yield 
To  the  sweet  sympathy  of  human  ties, 
And  downward  bend  from  the  excursive  field 
Of  reverie,  where  it  had  been  upheld 
With  a  strong  writhe  of  thought,  to  blend  again 
With  human  sorrows — woes  that  might  be  heal'd, 
If  man  would  be  no  more  the  scourge  of  man, 
And  loose  his  brother's  limbs  from  slavery's  crushing  chain. 

Yet  even  now,  amid  the  heavy  clouds 
That  long  have  wrapt  the  Afric's  sky  in  gloom, 
Ten-fold  more  deep  than  that  which  darkly  shrouds 
The  face  of  nature,  there  at  length  hath  come 
The  breaking  in  of  light,  which  shall  illume 
With  a  strong  glow,  ere  long,  its  whole  expanse, 
And,  shining  on  destroy 'd  oppression's  tomb, 
O'er  all  the  earth  its  holy  light  advance, 
Brilliant  and  clear  and  wide  as  the  first  sunbeam's  glance. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  103 


A  TRUE    BALLAD. 

A  GLORIOUS  land  is  this  of  ours, 

A  land  of  liberty  ! 
Through  all  the  wide  earth's  bounds  you  '11  find 

None  else  so  truly  free ! 

Go  north  or  south,  or  east  or  west, 

Wherever  you  may  roam, 
There 's  not  a  land  like  this  of  ours, 

The  stranger's  refuge  home ! 

And  yet  methinks  it  were  but  well, 

The  tale  might  not  be  told, 
That  where  our  banner  proudliest  floats, 

Are  human  sinews  sold. 

And  when  we  boast  that  o'er  our  soil 

No  tyrants  footstep  treads, 
'T  were  well  if  we  could  hide  the  blood, 

The  red  scourge  daily  sheds. 

Yet  still  is  ours  a  glorious  land ! 

Our  shouts  rise  wild  and  high — 
I  would  such  tales  as  I  have  heard, 

Might  give  them  not  the  lie. 

It  was  a  mournful  mother,  sat 

Within  the  prison  walls  ; 
And  bitterly  adown  her  cheek 

The  scalding  tear-drop  falls. 

She  sat  within  the  prison  walls, 

Amidst  her  infants  three ; 
The  bars  were  strong,  the  bolts  well  drawn, 

She  might  not  hope  to  flee. 

And  still  the  tears  fell  down  her  cheek, 

And  when  a  footstep  came, 
A  shudder  of  convulsive  fear 

Went  o'er  her  quivering  frame. 


104 


POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

It  was  not  for  the  dungeon's  chill, 

Nor  for  the  gloom  it  wore, 
Nor  that  the  pangs  of  conscious  guilt 

Her  frighted  bosom  tore.  — 

For  though  in  prison  cell  she  lay, 

In  freedom's  happy  clime, 
Her  hand  was  innocent  of  wrong, 

They  charged  her  not  with  crime  ; 

T  was  that  she  wore  a  dusky  brow, 

She  lay  within  that  hold, 
Until  her  human  limbs  and  heart 
Were  chaffer'd  off  for  gold. 

Sold  with  her  babes  —  all,  one  by  one, 

Forever  torn  apart  — 
And  not  one  faint  hope  left  to  cling 

Around  her  broken  heart. 

Yet  still  is  ours  a  glorious  land  ! 

Raise  pceans  loud  and  high, 
To  that  which  fills  all  patriot  breasts, 

Our  country's  liberty. 

Her  husband  was  a  freeman  good, 

He  lived  in  Maryland  ; 
Where  now  in  bootless  grief  he  wept 

His  broken  marriage  band. 

He  loved  her  when  they  both  were  young 

And  though  she  was  a  slave, 
He  wedded  her,  and  with  his  hand, 

Changeless  affection  gave. 

And  when  their  prattling  infants  smiled, 

Upon  his  cottage  floor, 
For  them  and  her,  with  cheerful  heart, 

His  daily  toil  he  bore. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER  105 

But  woe  for  him,  and  woe  for  her ! 

Her  children  all  were  slaves ; 
Less  grief  their  parents'  hearts  had  borne, 

To  weep  above  their  graves. 

For  still  as  one  by  one  they  grew 

To  childhood's  franksome  years, 
They  one  by  one  were  torn  away 

To  bondage  and  to  tears. — 

Torn  far  away  to  distant  scenes, 

Like  green  leaves  from  their  stem  ; 
And  never  to  their  home,  bereaved, 

Came  tidings  more  of  them. 

Now  all  were  wrench'd  apart — there  was 

No  deeper  grief  to  bear ; 
And  they  might  calmly  sit  them  down 

In  agonized  despair. 

For  though  our  land  is  proudly  free, 

All  other  lands  above, 
There's  none  may  dare  to  knit  again, 

Those  sacred  cords  of  love. 


THY  THUNDER  PEALETH  O'ER  US. 

THY  thunder  pealeth  o'er  us, 
God  of  the  earth  and  sky  ! 

And  o'er  the  gloomy  heavens 
The  clouds  roll  dark  and  high. 

But  'tis  not  by  thine  anger, 

Those  flashing  bolts  are  hurl'd, 

To  desolate  and  humble 
A  proud  and  guilty  world. 

Though  awful  in  its  grandeur 
The  storm  o'ermounts  the  sky, 

It  bears  from  thee  a  blessing, 
Beneath  its  scowling  eye. 


106  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Behind  its  steps  more  radiantly 
The  deep  blue  heavens  will  shine, 

And  the  glad  earth,  rejoicing, 
Pour  forth  her  corn  and  wine. 

But  oh,  there  lieth  brooding, 
A  cloud  more  dark  and  dread, 

Above  our  guilty  nation, 
In  fearful  portent  spread  ! 

Though  broad  our  frightful  borders 

All  smilingly  expand, 
The  curse  of  blood  is  on  us, 

And  on  our  pleasant  land. 

For  we  have  sinn'd  before  thee, 
And  caused  dark  floods  to  roll, 

Of  tyranny  and  anguish, 
Across  our  brother's  soul. 

But  let  not  yet  thine  anger 

Consume  our  blood-stain'd  sod ; 

Extend  a  little  longer 

Thy  mercy,  oh  our  God ! 

And  touch  our  flinty  bosoms 
With  thy  dissolving  grace, 

That  we  may  hate  our  vileness, 
And  weep  before  thy  face. 


ALINE. 

How  very  beautiful 

The  creatures  of  this  earth  can  sometimes  be ! 
Aline  was  one  of  such  ;  the  summer  rose 
Hath  not  a  petal  fairer  than  her  cheek, 
Nor  hath  the  light  of  the  out-breaking  sun 
More  radiant  gladness  than  her  beaming  smile. 
Her  heart  was  full  of  gushing  happiness. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  107 

The  common  air — the  unfolding  of  a  flower — 
The  voice  of  streams— the  music  of  a  bird 
Was  joy  to  her ;  and  her  glad  spirit  breathed 
Its  light  o'er  all  around :  Yet  her  soft  eye 
Was  readier  than  a  child's  to  fill  with  tears 
For  human  sorrow ;  and  her  heart  pour'd  out 
Its  large  affections  over  all  that  lived. 
There  was  no  selfishness  in  its  young  pulse  ; 
Its  thoughts  were  full  of  God,  and  all  He  made 
To  breathe  upon  the  earth  shared  in  her  love, 
And  the  ups welling  of  her  sympathies. 

Again, 

In  after  years  I  look'd  upon  Aline. 
Her  face  was  lovely  yet,  but  wore  not  all 
The  bloom  of  its  young  freshness  ;  and  the  light, 
That  made  its  glance  a  gladness,  was  not  there. 
A  childish  group  was  round,  filling  the  room 
With  their  sweet  laughter ;  and  a  bright-eyed  girl, 
Who  look'd  Aline  restored  to  youth  again, 
Held  to  his  mother's  cheek  the  baby  lips 
Of  a  young  brother,  crowing  in  his  joy, 
As  she  laugh'd  back  to  him. 

Aline  went  forth 

Amidst  her  servants  ;  and  her  voice  arose 
Shrilly  and  harsh,  and  they  shrunk  back  in  dread 
From  her  stern  eye.     The  keen  and  cruel  scourge 
Was  busy  at  her  bidding  ;  and  the  limbs 
Of  woman  bled  before  her,  and  the  shriek 
Of  childhood  rose  unheeded. 

Then  came  one, 

Whose  traffic  was  in  human  forms  ;  whose  wealth 
Was  gather'd  from  the  blood  of  breaking  hearts, 
And  the  stern  rending  of  the  holiest  ties 
That  bless  man's  nature.     For  a  price  of  gold, 
Her  husband  sold  to  him  the  only  son 
Of  a  fond  mother's  love,  and  from  the  arms 
Of  conjugal  affection,  a  sad  wife, 
With  all  her  weeping  babes — and  she  stood  by — 
That  once  compassionate  girl — without  a  tear ; 
Seeing  their  misery,  yet  speaking  not 
One  word  to  save  them.     She  who  once, 


108  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

But  at  the  thought  of  such  iniquity, 

And  so  much  wretchedness,  had  shuddering  wept, 

Beheld  it  now  without  a  passing  pang  ; 

And  careless  went  to  her  own  babes  again — 

So  much  had  the  best  feelings  of  her  heart 

Been  sear'd  by  .dwelling  'midst  a  land  of  slaves. 


THE  SUGAR-PLUMS. 

No,  no,  pretty  sugar-plums  !  stay  where  you  are ! 
Though  my  grandmother  sent  you  to  me  from  so  far; 
You  look  very  nice,  you  would  taste  very  sweet, 
And  I  love  you  right  well,  yet  not  one  will  I  eat. 

For  the  poor  slaves  have  labour'd,  far  down  in  the  south, 
To  make  you  so  sweet  and  so  nice  for  my  mouth ; 
But  I  want  no  slaves  toiling  for  me  in  the  sun, 
Driven  on  with  the  whip,  till  the  long  day  is  done. 

Perhaps  some  poor  slave  child,  that  hoed  up  the  ground, 
Round  the  cane  in  whose  rich  juice  your  sweetness  was  found, 
Was  flogg'd,  till  his  mother  cried  sadly  to  see, 
And  I  'm  sure  I  want  nobody  beaten  for  me. 

So  grandma,  I  thank  you  for  being  so  kind, 
But  your  present,  to-day,  is  not  much  to  my  mind; 
Though  I  love  you  so  dearly,  I  choose  not  to  eat 
Even  what  you  have  sent  me  by  slavery  made  sweet. 

Thus  said  little  Fanny,  and  skipp'd  off  to  play, 
Leaving  all  her  nice  sugar-plums  just  where  they  lay, 
As  merry  as  if  they  had  gone  in  her  mouth, 
And  she  had  not  cared  for  the  slaves  of  the  south. 


OH  PRESS  ME  NOT  TO  TASTE  AGAIN. 

OH  press  me  not  to  taste  again 

Of  those  luxurious  banquet  sweets  ! 

Or  hide  from  view  the  dark  red  stain, 
That  still  my  shuddering  vision  meets. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  109 

Away  !  't  is  loathsome !  bear  me  hence  ! 

I  cannot  feed  on  human  sighs, 
Or  feast  with  sweets  my  palate's  sense, 

While  blood  is  'neath  the  fair  disguise. 

No,  never  let  me  taste  again 

Of  aught  beside  the  coarsest  fare> 
Far  rather,  than  my  conscience  stain, 

With  the  polluted  luxuries  there. 


LOOKING  AT  THE  SOLDIERS. 

"  MOTHER,  the  trumpets  are  sounding  to-day, 
And  the  soldiers  go  by  in  their  gallant  array  ! 
Their  horses  prance  gaily,  their  banners  float  free, 
Come,  come  to  the  window,  dear  mother,  with  me. 

"  Do  you  see  how  their  bayonets  gleam  in  the  sun, 
And  their  soldier-plumes  nod,  as  they  slowly  march  on  ? 
And  look  to  the  regular  tread  of  their  feet ! 
Keeping  time  to  the  sound  of  the  kettle-drum's  beat. 

"  This,  mother,  you  know,  is  a  glorious  day, 
And  Americans  all  should  be  joyous  and  gay ; 
For  the  Fourth  of  July  saw  our  country  set  free ; 
But  you  look  not  delighted,  dear  mother,  like  me !" 

"  No,  love ;  for  that  shining  and  brilliant  display, 
To  me  only  tells  of  war's  fearful  array ; 
And  I  know  that  those  bayonets,  flashing  so  bright, 
Were  made  in  man's  blood  to  be  spoil'd  of  their  light. 

"  And  the  music  that  swells  up  so  sweet  to  the  ear, 
In  a  long  gush  of  melody,  joyous  and  clear, 
Just  as  freely  would  pour  out  its  wild  thrilling  flood, 
To  stir  up  men's  hearts  to  the  shedding  of  blood ! 

"  Our  country,  my  boy,  as  you  tell  me,  is  free, 
But  even  that  thought  brings  a  sadness  to  me  ; 
For  less  guilt  would  be  hers,  were  her  own  fetter'd  hand 
Unable  to  loosen  her  slaves  from  their  band. 

10 


110  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

"  We  joy  that  our  country's  light  bonds  have  been  broke, 
But  her  sons  wear,  by  thousands,  a  life-crushing  yoke ; 
And  yon  bayonets,  dear,  would  be  sheathed  in  their  breast, 
Should  they  fling  off  the  shackles  that  round  them  are  prest. 

"  Even  'midst  these  triumphant  rejoicings,  to-day, 
The  slave-mother  weeps  for  her  babes,  torn  away, 
'Midst  the  echoing  burst  of  these  shouts,  to  be  sold, 
Human  forms  as  they  are,  for  a  pittance  of  gold ! 

"  Can  you  wonder  then,  love,  that  your  mother  is  sad, 
Though  yon  show  is  so  gay,  and  the  crowd  is  so  glad  ? 
Or  will  not  my  boy  turn  with  me  from  the  sight, 
To  think  of  those  slaves  sunk  in  sorrow  and  night?" 


TO  A  STRANGER. 

I  KNOW  thee  not,  young  maiden,  yet  I  know  that  there  must  be 
Around  that  heart  of  thine,  sweet  ties  of  clinging  sympathy ; 
Dwell'st  thou  not  'midst  thy  childhood's  hours,  a  loved  and 

loving  one, 
Around  whose  path  affection's  light  hath  ever  sunshine  thrown  ? 

A  sister's  arm  is  round  thee  twined,  perchance,  oh  deeply  blest ! 
A  parent's  fond  and  holy  kiss  upon  thy  brow  is  prest; 
A  brother's  love — is  that,  too,  thine  ? — a  gem  of  priceless  worth, 
To  guard  thee,  like  a  talisman,  amid  the  storms  of  earth. 

Then  blame  me  not,  that  I  should  seek,  although  I  know  not  thee, 
To  waken  in  thy  heart  its  chords  of  holiest  sympathy ; 
It  is  for  woman's  bleeding  heart,  for  woman's  humbled  form, 
O'er  which  the  reeking  lash  is  swung,  with  life's  red  current 
warm. 

It  is  for  those  who  wildly  mourn  o'er  many  a  broken  tie, 

As  sweet  as  those  which  swell  thy  heart  with  happiness  so  high  ; 

For  those  whose  hearts  are  rent  and  crush'd  by  foul  oppression's 

hand, 
The  wrong'd,  the  wretched,  the  enslaved,  in  freedom's  chosen 

land. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  Ill 

Oh,  lady !  when  a  sister's  cry  is  ringing  on  the  air, 
When  woman's  pleading  eye  is  raised  in  agonized  despair, 
When  woman's  limbs  are  scourged  and  sold  'midst  rude  and 

brutal  mirth, 

And  all  affection's  holiest  ties  are  trampled  to  the  earth, 
May  female  hearts  be  still  unstirr'd,  and  'midst  their  wretch- 

ed  lot, 

The  victims  of  unmeasured  wrongs  be  carelessly  forgot? 
Or  shall  the  prayer  be  pour'd  for  them,  the  tear  be  freely  given, 
Until  the  chains,  that  bind  them  now,  from  every  limb  be  riven  ? 


SLAVE    PRODUCE. 

EAT  !  they  are  cates  for  a  lady's  lip, 
Rich  as  the  sweets  that  the  wild  bees  sip ; 
Mingled  viands  that  nature  hath  pour'd, 
From  the  plenteous  stores  of  her  flowing  board, 
Bearing  no  trace  of  man's  cruelty — save 
The  red  life-drops  of  his  human  slave. 

« 

List  thee,  lady  !  and  turn  aside, 
With  a  loathing  heart,  from  the  feast  of  pride ; 
For,  mix'd  with  the  pleasant  sweets  it  bears, 
Is  the  hidden  curse  of  scalding  tears, 
Wrung  out  from  woman's  bloodshot  eye, 
By  the  depth  of  her  deadly  agony. 

Look !  they  are  robes  from  a  foreign  loom, 
Delicate,  light,  as  the  rose  leaf's  bloom ; 
Stainless  and  pure  in  their  snowy  tint, 
As  the  drift  unmarked  by  a  footstep's  print. 
Surely  such  garment  should  fitting  be, 
For  woman's  softness  and  purity. 

Yet  fling  them  off  from  thy  shrinking  limb, 
For  sighs  have  render'd  their  brightness  dim ; 
And  many  a  mother's  shriek  and  groan, 
And  many  a  daughter's  burning  moan, 
And  many  a  sob  of  wild  despair, 
From  woman's  heart,  is  lingering  there. 


112  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

LITTLE    SADO'S  STORY. 


Robert  Sutcliff,  in  his  book  of  travels  in  America,  relates  the  incident 
which  has  suggested  the  following  lines.  Little  Sado  was  an  African 
boy,  who  was  rescued  from  a  slave-ship  by  a  United  States'  frigate,  and 
provided  by  the  Pennsylvania  Abolition  Society  with  a  home,  in  a  respect- 
able family,  near  Philadelphia. 

"  Although  tended  with  the  greatest  tenderness,"  says  Sutcliff,  "  yet  he 
was  often  seen  weeping  at  the  recollection  of  his  near  connexions.  He 
said  that  himself  and  sister  were  on  a  visit,  at  a  relation's,  and  that  after 
the  family  had  retired  to  rest,  they  were  suddenly  alarmed  at  the  dead 
of  night,  by  a  company  of  man-stealers  breaking  into  their  habitation. 
They  were  all  carried  off  towards  the  sea,  where  they  arrived  at  the  end 
of  three  days,  and  were  confined  until  the  vessel  sailed. 

"  Not  long  after  this  negro  boy  had  been  brought  into  S.  P.'s  family,  he 
was  taken  ill  of  a  bad  fever ;  and  for  a  time  there  appeared  but  little  hopes 
of  his  recovery,  although  the  best  medical  help  was  obtained,  and  every 
kindness  and  attention  shown  him. 

"  There  being  now  scarcely  any  prospect  of  his  recovery,  his  mistress 
was  desirous  of  administering  some  religious  consolation,  and  observed 
to  him,  as  he  had  always  been  a  very  good  boy,  she  had  no  doubt  that  if 
he  died  at  this  time,  his  spirit  would  be  admitted  into  a  state  of  eternal 
rest  and  peace.  On  hearing  this  he  quickly  replied,  '  I  know  that  if  I  die, 
I  shall  be  happy ;  for  as  soon  as  my  body  is  dead,  my  spirit  shall  fly 
away  to  my  father  and  mother  and  sisters  and  brothers  in  Africa.'  The 
boy  recovered.  His  good  conduct  had  gained  the  favour  and  respect  of 
the  whole  family,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  care  bestowed  upon  his 
education,  will  in  due  time  afford  him  a  brighter  prospect  of  a  future  state 
than  that  of  returning  to  Africa." 


"  WHY  weep'st  thou,  gentle  boy  ?  Is  not  thy  lot 

Amidst  a  home  of  tenderness  and  friends 

Who  have  been  ever  kind  to  thee?    Thy  heart 

Should  be  too  young  for  the  world's  bitterness, 

And  the  deep  grief,  that  even  amidst  thy  smiles, 

Seems  scarce  to  be  forgotten.     Thou  art  good, 

A  very  innocent  and  gentle  boy, 

And  I  would  have  thee  happy.     Is  there  aught 

Thou  lackest  with  us,  Sado  1     Did  I  not, 

In  thy  sore  sickness,  with  a  mother's  care,        „ 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  113 

Watch  by  thy  couch  and  nurse  thee  ?     Day  by  day 
Have  I  not  taught  thee  patiently  ?  and  more 
Than  earthly  learning,  show'd  thee  of  the  way 
To  win  eternal  happiness.    A  better  hope 
Than  that  which  only  look'd  to  Afric's  shore, 
To  find  thy  future  Heaven  !" — 

"  Yes,  thou  hast  done  all  this, 
And  much  more,  lady  !    Thou  hast  been  to  me 
A  true  and  tireless  friend,  and  may  there  be 

Laid  up  for  thee  a  full  reward  of  bliss, 
In  that  bright  Heaven  of  which  I  've  heard  thee  tell, 
Where  God  and  all  his  holy  angels  dwell. 

"  Yet  how  can  I  but  weep 
Whene'er  I  think  upon  the  mother's  eye, 
That  smiled  to  meet  my  glance  in  days  gone  by, 

And  watch'd  in  tenderness  above  my  sleep, 
Now  grown  all  dim  with  hopeless  grief  for  me, 
Who  never  more  may  home  or  parent  see. 

"  'T  was  on  a  bright  sunny  morn, 
When  with  glad  heart  I  sprang  across  the  hills, 
With  my  young  sister,  and  beside  the  rills, 

Whose  shining  waves  and  clustering  flowers  were  borne, 
While  at  the  cabin  door  my  mother  stood, 
And  watch'd  our  footsteps  to  the  distant  wood. 

"  She  never  saw  us  more — 
For  in  the  dead  of  night,  while  deep  we  slept 
Within  our  uncle's  home,  the  man-thieves  crept 

With  stealthy  pace,  like  tigers,  to  our  door. 
And,  bursting  in,  they  dragg'd  us  far  away, 
A  helpless,  frighten'd,  unresisting  prey. 

"  Ah,  lady,  now  thine  eyes 
Are  wet  with  tears : — then  wonder  not  I  weep, 
Within  whose  waking  thoughts,  or  dreams  of  sleep, 

The  memories  of  such  scenes  as  this  arise, 
And  worse  than  these,  the  constant  thought  of  pain, 
That  I  shall  never  see  my  home  again. 

10* 


114  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

"  Three  days  they  drove  us  on, 
A  weary,  wretched,  and  despairing  band, 
Until  with  swollen  limbs  we  reach'd  the  strand, 

Where  'neath  the  setting  sun  the  sea-waves  shone ; 
Then  gasping  in  the  slave-ship's  hold  we  lay, 
And  wish'd  each  groan  might  bear  our  lives  away. 

"Ah,  thou  canst  never  know 
Of  all  our  sufferings  in  that  loathsome  den, 
And  from  the  cruel  and  hard-hearted  men, 

Who  mock'd  at  all  our  anguish  and  our  woe ; 
Until  at  length  thy  country's  ship  came  by, 
And  saved  us  from  our  depth  of  misery. 

"  Yet  still,  though  not  a  slave, 
I  am  a  stranger  in  a  stranger's  land, 
Far  sever'd  from  my  own  dear  kindred  band, 

By  many  a  wide-stretch 'd  plain  and  rolling  wave ; 
And,  although  even  with  thee  my  lot  is  cast, 
I  cannot  lose  the  memory  of  the  past. 

"  Then  wonder  not  I  weep  ,• 
For  never  can  my  lost  home  be  forgot ; 
Nor  all  the  loved  ones  who  have  made  that  spot 

The  heaven  to  which  e'en  yet,  amid  my  sleep, 
My  hopes  are  sometimes  turn'd — though  thou  hast  taught 
My  waking  hours  a  holier,  better  thought." 


AN  APPEAL  FOR  THE  OPPRESSED. 

DAUGHTERS  of  the  Pilgrim  sires, 

Dwellers  by  their  mouldering  graves, 

Watchers  of  their  altar  fires, 

Look  upon  your  country's  slaves ! 

Look  !  't  is  woman's  streaming  eye, 
These  are  woman's  fetter'd  hands, 

That  to  you  so  mournfully 

Lift  sad  glance,  and  iron  bands. 


ELIZABETH  MABGARET   CHANDLER.  115 

Mute,  yet  strong  appeal  of  woe ! 

Wakes  it  not  your  starting  tears  1 
Though  your  hearts  may  never  know, 

Half  the  bitter  doom  of  hers. 

Scars  are  on  her  fetter'd  limbs, 

Where  the  savage  scourge  hath  been ; 
But  the  grief,  her  eye  that  dims, 

Flows  for  deeper  wounds  within. 

For  the  children  of  her  love, 

For  the  brothers  of  her  race, 
Sisters,  like  vine  branches  wove, 

In  one  early  dwelling  place. 

For  the  parent  forms,  that  hung 

Fondly  o'er  her  infant  sleep, 
And  for  him,  to  whom  she  clung 

With  affection,  true  and  deep — 

By  her  sad  forsaken  hearth, 

'T  is  for  these  she  wildly  grieves  f 
Now  all  scatter'd  o'er  the  earth, 

Like  the  wind-strewn  autumn  leaves  ! 

E'en  her  babes,  so  dear,  so  young,      >  .^ 

And  so  treasured  in  her  heart, 
That  the  chords  which  round  them  clung 

Seem'd  its  life,  its  dearest  part — 

These,  ev'n  these,  were  torn  away ! 

These,  that  when  all  else  were  gone, 
C'^eer'd  her  heart  with  one  bright  ray, 

That  still  bade  its  pulse  beat  on. 

Then,  to  still  her  frantic  woe, 

The  inhuman  scourge  was  tried, 
Till  the  tears  that  ceased  to  flow, 

Were  with  redder  drops  supplied  J 


116  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

And  can  you  behold  unmoved, 
All  the  crushing  weight  of  grief, 

That  her  aching  heart  has  proved, 
Seeking  not  to  yield  relief? 

Are  not  woman's  pulses  warm, 
Beating  in  this  anguish'd  breast  ? 

Is  it  not  a  sister's  form, 

On  whose  limbs  these  fetters  rest  1 

Oh  then,  save  her  from  a  doom, 
Worse  than  all  that  ye  may  bear ; 

Let  her  pass  not  to  the  tomb 
'Midst  her  bondage  and  despair. 


THE  SYLVAN  GRAVE. 

LAY  me  not,  when  I  die,  in  the  place  of  the  dead, 
With  the  dwellings  of  men  round  my  resting  place  spread, 
But  amidst  the  still  forest,  unseen  and  alone, 
Where  the  waters  go  by  with  a  murmuring  tone ; 
Where  the  wild  bird  above  me  may  wave  its  dark  wing, 
And  the  flowers  I  have  loved  from  my  ashes  may  spring ; 
Where  affection's  own  blossom  may  lift  its  blue  eye, 
With  an  eloquent  glance  from  the  place  where  I  lie. 
Let  the  rose  and  the  woodbine  be  there,  to  enwreath 
A  bright  chaplet  of  bloom  for  the  pale  brow  of  death ; 
And  the  clover's  red  blossom  be  seen,  that  the  hum 
Of  the  honey-bee's  wing,  may  for  requiem  come : 
And  when  those  I  have  loved,  'midst  the  changes  of  earth, 
The  clouds  of  its  sorrow,  its  sunshine  of  mirth, 
Shall  visit  the  spot  where  my  cold  relics  He, 
And  gaze  on  its  flowers  with  a  tear-moisten'd  eye — 
Let  them  think  that  my  spirit  still  sometimes  is  there, 
My  breath  the  light  zephyr  that  twines  in  their  hair, 
And  these  flowers,  in  their  fragrance,  a  memory  be, 
To  tell  them  thus  sweet  was  their  friendship  to  me. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  117 


NIGHT. 

EARTH  !  thou  art  lovely,  when  the  sinking  sun 
Hath  bathed  the  clouds  in  his  departing  flush, 
And,  with  the  moon-lit  evening,  hath  begun 
The  voiceless,  and  yet  spirit-calming  hush, 
That  thrills  around  the  heart,  till  tear-drops  rush, 
Unbidden  and  uncall'd  for,  to  the  eye ; 
When,  save  the  music  of  the  fountain's  gush, 
Or  the  far  wailing  of  the  night-bird's  cry, 
Unbroken  silence  hangs  o'er  earth,  and  wave,  and  sky. 

But  now  the  majesty  of  midnight  storm 
Is  gathering,  in  its  grandeur,  o'er  the  sky ; 
The  deep  black  clouds  in  mustering  squadrons  form 
And  the  low,  fitful  blast,  that  passes  by, 
Hath  a  strange  fearful  thrilling — like  the  sigh 
Of  a  sick  slumberer  ;  even  that  hath  died, 
And  in  their  quiet  sleep  the  waters  lie, 
As  though  the  winds  ne'er  curl'd  them  in  its  pride, 
Or  shook  the  still  bent  leaves  that  hang  above  the  tide 

How  steadily  that  ebon  mass  moves  on ! 
Stretching  across  the  sky  in  one  dark  line, 
Like  a  huge  wall  of  blackness ;  there  do  none 
Of  the  thin  silvery  vapours  hang  supine, 
Or  those  bright  clouds  that  sometimes  seem  to  twine 
A  coronal  to  grace  the  brow  of  night ; 
Stars  in  Orion's  studded  baldric  shine, 
In  all  their  wonted  brightness  ;  and  the  light 
Of  an  unclouded  moon  half  dims  the  dazzled  sight 

The  tempest  hurries  onward — how  the  flash 
Of  the  red  lightning  leaps  from  cloud  to  cloud ! 
The  gathering  thunder  bursts  in  one  wild  crash, 
And  sinks  a  moment — then,  returning  loud, 
Seems  bounding  o'er  the  sky,  as  if  't  were  proud 
Of  its  own  potency.     We  need  not  now, 
A  sharer  in  the  thoughts  that  round  us  crowd ; 
The  soul  is  its  own  world,  and  the  deep  glow 
Of  the  rapt  spirit  seeks  no  fellowship  below. 


118  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

The  wildness  of  the  storm  hath  pass'd ;  the  rain 
Drips  from  the  wet  leaves  only,  and  the  sky, 
With  its  deep  azure  beauty,  gleams  again 
Through  the  rent  clouds ;  the  sunken  wind  swells  by, 
With  a  low  sobbing ;  and  the  clouds,  heap'd  high, 
With  the  rich  moonbeams'  streaming  flood  of  light 
Pour'd  full  upon  them,  swell  before  the  eye 
Like  distant  snow-clad  mountains.     Night !  O  night ! 
Thou  art  most  glorious  !  most  beautifully  bright ! 


REMINISCENCE. 

AWAY  and  away  to  memory's  land ! 
To  seize  the  past  with  a  daring  hand, 
And  bear  it  back  from  oblivion's  bowers, 
To  brighten  again  this  dull  world  of  ours. 

There's  many  a  walk  beneath  summer  skies, 
Starry  and  blue  as  some  earthly  eyes  ; 
There's  many  an  eve  by  the  winter's  hearth, 
Sparkling  all  over  with  friendship  and  mirth. 

There's  many  a  ramble  through  wood  and  glen, 
Away  from  the  sight  and  the  haunts  of  men ; 
There's  climbing  of  rocks,  and  gathering  flowers, 
And  watching  the  stream  through  summer  showers. 

There's  many  an  hour  that  quickly  went, 
In  the  boughs  of  the  old  hill  grape-vine  spent; 
There 's  many  a  ride,  and  many  a  walk, 
And  many  a  theme  of  friendly  talk. 

How  freshly  comes  to  the  spirit  back, 
The  merry  light  of  its  early  track  ! — 
But  let  it  pass,  for  around  my  brow 
Far  deeper  thoughts  are  gathering  now. 

I  have  learn'd  too  much  of  woe  and  wrong, 
Of  hearts  all  crush'd  by  oppression  strong, 
To  deem  the  earth,  as  in  other  days, 
A  fairy  theme  for  a  poet's  lays. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  119 

How  may  I  linger  within  the  bowers, 
Bedight  with  memory's  fairy  flowers, 
While  woman's  cry,  as  she  drains  the  cup 
Of  her  bitter  lot,  to  the  sky  goes  up  ? 

How  may  I  joy  in  my  better  fate, 
While  her  heart  is  bleeding  and  desolate  ?— 
Or  give  my  thoughts  to  their  blissful  dreams, 
While  no  bright  ray  on  her  darkness  gleams  ? 


JUAN    DE   PARESA, 

THE  PAINTER'S  SLAVE. 

'TwAS  sunset  upon  Spain.     The  sky  of  June 
Bent  o'er  her  airy  hills,  and  on  their  tops, 
The  mountain  cork-trees  caught  the  fading  light 
Of  a  resplendent  day.     The  painter  threw 
His  pencil  down,  and  with  a  glance  of  pride 
Upon  his  beautiful  and  finish'd  work, 
Went  from  his  rooms.     And  Juan  stood  alone—- 
Gazing upon  the  canvas,  with  his  arms 
Folded  across  his  bosom,  and  his  eye 
Fill'd  with  deep  admiration,  till  a  shade     •  rfi 
Of  earnest  thought  stole  o'er  it.    With  a  sigh, 
He  turn'd  away,  and  leaning  listlessly 
Against  the  open  casement,  look'd  abroad. 
The  cool  fresh  breezes  of  the  evening  came, 
To  bathe  his  temples  with  the  scented  breath 
Of  orange  blossoms ;  and  the  caroll'd  song 
Of  the  light-hearted  muleteer,  who  climb'd 
The  mountain  pass — the  tinkling  of  the  bells, 
That  cheer'd  his  dumb  companions  on  their  way — 
The  passing  vesper  chime — the  song  of  birds — 
And  the  soft  hum  of  insects — soothingly 
Stole  in  with  blended  sweetness  to  his  ear. 
And  then  the  scene !  't  was  of  Spain's  loveliest ; 
Mountain  and  forest,  emerald  pasture  slopes, 
Dark  olive  groves,  and  bowers  of  lemon-trees ; 
Vineyards,  and  tangled  glens,  the  swift  cascade, 
Leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  the  calm  bright  stream, 


120  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

The  castle,  and  the  peasant  hut,  were  there, 

All  group'd  in  one  bright  landscape.    Juan  gazed, 

Until  the  spirit  of  its  beauty  pass'd, 

Like  some  fine  subtle  influence  to  his  heart, 

Filling  it  with  rich  thoughts.     He  had  not  known 

The  teachings  of  Philosophy,  nor  fed 

The  cravings  of  his  spirit,  from  the  page 

Of  intellectual  glory  ;  but  his  eye 

Had  been  unseal'd  by  Nature,  and  his  mind 

Was  full  of  nice  perceptions;  and  a  love, 

Deep  and  intense,  for  what  was  beautiful, 

ThrilPd  like  vitality  around  his  heart, 

With  an  ennobling  influence. 

He  had  stood 

Beside  the  easel,  day  by  day,  to  feed 
The  pallet  of  the  Painter  with  the  hues 
That  lived  upon  the  canvas,  and  had  watch'd 
The  fine  and  skilful  touch,  that  made  a  thing 
Of  magic  of  the  pencil,  till  he  caught 
The  overmastering  glow  of  spirit,  and  he  long'd 
So  to  pour  out  his  soul,  and  give  the  forms 
Of  beauty,  that  were  thronging  it,  to  life. 
Such  thoughts  were  on  him  now.     His  fine  form  lean'd 
Earnestly  forward,  and  within  his  eye 
There  flash'd  a  tremulous  glory,  and  his  hand 
Was  press'd  upon  his  heart,  as  if  to  quell 
Its  hopeless  longings — for  he  was  a  slave! 
The  bended  brow,  o'er  which  the  gathering  blood 
Rush'd  burningly,  as  bitter  tears  sprang  out 
From  under  his  closed  eyelids,  wore  the  stain 
Of  Afric's  lineage  : — and,  alas  for  him  ! 
His  master  was  the  haughtiest  lord  of  all 
Castile's  proud  nobles,  and  Paresa  knew 
That  even  his  life  would  scarce  suffice  to  pay 
The  forfeit  of  the  daring,  that  should  seek) 
With  the  profaning  fingers  of  a  slave, 
To  grasp  the  meed  of  genius* 

Yet  his  eye, 

When  he  uncover'd  it,  was  calm  and  bright, 
And  his  curl'd  lip  set  faintly  in  the  strength 
Of  his  fix'd  purpose. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  121 

Day  by  day,  he  gave 

His  spirit  to  the  glorious  dreams  that  throng'd 
Around  it,  and  pursued  his  secret  toil, 
Feeding  his  mind  with  its  own  fervid  thoughts, 
Till  he  had  won  its  brightest  images 
Within  his  grasp. 

At  length  his  task  was  done. 
The  last  nice  touch  was  given,  and  he  laid 
His  pencil  by,  and  scann'd  it,  o'er  and  o'er, 
With  a  keen  gaze,  and  turn'd  away,  and  still 
Again  resumed  his  scrutiny  severe, 
Till  satisfied  at  last,  with  trembling  hand 
He  bore  it  to  its  station. 

'T  was  the  hour 

At  which  the  king  was  often  wont  to  seek 
The  chambers  of  the  artist,  and  the  slave 
Knew  that  the  monarch  had  a  painter's  heart, 
And  critic's  eye  for  beauty,  and  to  him, 
He  had  resolved  to  trust  his  fate. 

They  came — 

The  monarch  and  the  painter ;  and  the  breath 
Rush'd  quick  and  tremulous  from  Juan's  lips, 
As  they  pass'd  slowly  round,  with  brief  remark 
Of  praise  or  censure,  till  at  length  the  king 
Stood  forth  alone,  and  check'd  his  loitering  step. 
"  Turn  me  this  canvas."    And  Paresa  did 
His  bidding  silently,  and  stood  aside 
To  wait  his  destiny  of  life  or  death. 
Long  gazed  the  king  in  silence — but  his  limbs 
Lost  their  loose  careless  tension,  and  his  eye 
Lit  gradually  up,  and  the  fine  curve 
Of  his  expanded  nostril  and  curl'd  lip 
Breathed  with  a  kindling  spirit. — "  Beautiful !" 
At  last  he  murmur'd — "  Oh,  how  beautiful !" 
And  Juan,  with  a  glance  of  conscious  pride 
He  could  not  conquer,  even  while  he  lay 
A  suppliant  at  Philip's  feet,  confess'd 
The  guilt  of  having  won  a  monarch's  praise. 


11 


122  POETICAl   WORKS    OF 

'T  was  a  star-lit  eve — and  Juan  stood  once  more 
Alone,  but  not  in  sadness ;  on  his  brow, 
His  free,  enfranchised  brow,  there  linger'd  yet 
The  glow  of  triumph,  soften'd  in  his  eye, 
By  the  sweet  tear  of  gratitude.     His  heart 
Was  full  to  overflowing,  and  when  words 
At  last  broke  forth,  almost  insensibly 
He  moulded  them  to  song : 

"  Look  on  me  stars !  pour  down  your  light 

Deep,  deep,  into  my  very  soul ; 
There  is  no  darkness  there  to-night, 

No  bondage  with  its  dread  control. 
What  blessedness  it  is  to  gaze 

On  all  that  God  has  made  so  fair, 
And  feel  no  blight  within  to  raise, 

O'er  all  a  cloud  of  dull  despair. 

"  Free !  free !  yet  I  will  leave  thee  not, 

Thou  who  hast  burst  my  galling  chain ! 
To  love  thee,  serve  thee,  be  my  lot, 

Till  death  shall  chill  my  throbbing  vein. 
The  past,  with  all  its  grief  and  shame, 

Shall  be  annull'd  by  memory  now ; 
But  not  the  hour  when  Freedom's  name 

Was  written  on  my  burning  brow." 


THE  SLAVE-MOTHER'S  FAREWELL. 

MAY  God  have  mercy  on  thee,  son,  for  man's  stern  heart  hath 

none ! 

My  gentle  boy,  my  beautiful,  my  loved  and  only  one ! 
[  would  the  bitter  tears  that  steep  thy  young  and  grief-doom'd 

head, 
Were  springing  from  a  broken  heart,  that  mourn'd  thee  with  the 

dead. 

And  yet  how  often  have  I  watch'd  above  thine  infant  sleep, 
With  love  whose  gushing  tenderness  strove  vainly  not  to  weep, 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  123 

When  starting  through  my  timid  heart,  the  thought  that  thou 

couldst  die, 
Shot,  even  amidst  a  mother's  bliss,  a  pang  of  agony. 

My  boy !  my  boy  !  Oh  cling  not  thus  around  me  in  thy  grief, 
Thy  mother's  arm,  thy  mother's  love,  can  yield  thee  no  relief; 
The  tiger's  bloody  jaw  hath  not  a  gripe  more  fierce  and  fell 
Than  that  which  tears  thee  from  my  arms — thou  who  wert 
loved  so  well ! 

How  may  I  live  bereft  of  thee  ?   Thy  smile  was  all  that  flung 
A  ray  of  gladness  'midst  the  gloom,  forever  round  me  hung : 
How  may  a  mother's  heart  endure  to  think  upon  thy  fate, 
Thou  doom'd  to  misery  and  chains ! — so  young  and  desolate ! 

Farewell !   farewell ! — They  tear  thee  hence  ! — and  yet  my 

heart  beats  on ; 

How  can  it  bear  the  weight  of  life,  when  thou  art  from  me  gone  ? 
Mine  own !  mine  own  !   Yet  cruel  hands  have  barter'd  thee  for 

gold, 
And  torn  thee,  with  a  ruthless  grasp,  forever  from  my  hold  1 


REPENTANCE. 

OUR  Father,  God  !  behold  us  raise 

Our  hopes,  our  thoughts,  our  hearts,  to  thee ; 
Yet  not  to  lift  the  hymn  of  praise, 

But  humbly  bow  the  suppliant  knee. 

For  we  have  sinn'd  before  thy  face, 
Have  seen  unmoved  our  brothers'  woe, 

Though  on  his  cheeks  hot  tear-drops  trace 
Deep  furrows  in  their  burning  flow. 

We  knew  that  on  his  limbs  were  bound 
The  fetters  man  should  never  wear ; 

We  knew  that  darkness  hemm'd  him  round, 
And  grief,  and  anguish,  and  despair. 


124  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

We  knew— but  in  our  selfish  hearts, 

There  waked  no  throb  of  answering  pain ; 

Yet,  now,  at  last,  the  tear-drop  starts, 

We  weep  the  oppress'd  one's  galling  chain.       / 

We  weep,  repenting  of  the  pride 

That  chill'd  our  narrow  souls  so  long ; 

Oh,  Father  !  may  that  suppliant  tide 
Efface  our  deep  and  cruel  wrong. 


CHRISTMAS. 

MOTHER,  when  christmas  comes  once  more, 

I  do  not  wish  that  you 
Should  buy  sweet  things  for  me  again, 

As  you  were  used  to  do : 

The  taste  of  cakes  and  sugar-plums 

Is  pleasant  to  me  yet, 
And  temptingly  the  gay  shops  look, 

With  their  fresh  stores  outset. 

But  I  have  learn'd,  dear  mother, 

That  the  poor  and  wretched  slave 

Must  toil  to  win  their  sweetness, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

And  when  he  faints  with  weariness 

Beneath  the  torrid  sun, 
The  keen  lash  urges  on  his  toil, 

Until  the  day  is  done. 

But  when  the  holy  angels'  hymn, 

On  Judea's  plains  afar, 
Peal'd  sweetly  on  the  shepherds'  ear, 

*Neath  Bethlehem's  wondrous  star, 

They  sung  of  glory  to  our  God, — 

"  Peace  and  good  will  to  men," — 

For  Christ,  the  Saviour  of  the  world, 
Was  born  amidst  them  then. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  125 

And  is  it  for  His  glory,  men 

Are  made  to  toil, 
With  weary  limbs  and  breaking  hearts, 

Upon  another's  soil  1 

That  they  are  taught  not  of  his  law, 

To  know  his  holy  will, 
And  that  He  hates  the  deed  of  sin, 

And  loves  the  righteous  still  1 

And  is  it  peace  and  love  to  men, 

To  bind  them  with  the  chain, 
And  sell  them  like  the  beasts  that  feed 

Upon  the  grassy  plain  ? 

To  tear  their  flesh  with  scourgings  rude, 

And  from  the  aching  heart, 
The  ties  to  which  it  fondliest  clings, 

For  evermore  to  part  ? 

And  'tis  because  of  all  this  sin,  my  mother, 

That   I   shun 
To  taste  the  tempting  sweets  for  which 

Such  wickedness  is  done. 

If  men  to  men  will  be  unjust,  if  slavery  must  be, 
Mother,  the  chain  must  not  be  worn ;  the  scourer 
be  plied  for  me. 


MY  COTTAGE  HOME. 

MY  cottage  home !  my  cottage  home ! 

How  beautiful  it  lies, 
Amid  its  quiet  loveliness, 

Beneath  our  bright  blue  skies. 
A  stranger's  eye  might  mark  it  not, 

Nor  deem  that  it  was  fair ; — 
To  me  it  is  a  lovely  spot, 

For  those  I  love  are  there. 
11* 


126  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

In  summer  there  are  wild  flowers  round, 

And  the  tall  forest  weaves 
A  drapery  of  light  and  shade, 

With  its  green  and  pleasant  leaves ; 
And  thousand  birds  are  pouring  out, 

To  the  gay  and  singing  breeze, 
From  the  wild  joys  of  their  leaping  hearts, 

A  thousand  melodies. 


The  shadowing  of  an  oak's  green  boughs 

Is  flung  the  low  roof  o'er ; 
And  clambering  vines  their  blossoms  hang 

About  the  open  door. 
And  round  the  harvest's  ripening  wealth 

Waves  in  its  yellow  light ; 
And  the  feathery  tassels  of  the  maize 

Bend  gracefully  and  slight. 

But  were  it  thousand  times  more  fair — 

If  o'er  the  fertile  soil 
Oppression  shook  her  manacles, 

And  scourged  the  slave  to  toil — 
To  me  the  rudest  desert  wild 

Were  better  for  my  home, 
So  never  on  its  arid  breeze 

The  voice  of  wrong  might  come. 

But  round  my  home,  my  cottage  home, 

The  tyrant  never  treads, 
And  o'er  the  field's  luxuriant  wealth 

No  slave  his  sad  tear  sheds. 
And  were  it  not  that  I  have  learn'd 

In  other  scenes  to  know 
Of  deeds  of  cruelty  and  wrong, 

And  of  the  oppress'd  ones'  woe — 
And  were  it  not  that  still  a  tale 

Is  wafted  on  the  air, 
Telling  of  fearful  injuries, 

And  anguish  and  despair ; 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  127 

I  might,  perchance,  almost  forget 

The  guilt  and  wrongs  of  earth, 
And  deem  that  brightness  gleam'd,  alone, 

Around  the  household  hearth. 

But  woe  for  man's  dark  cruelty ! 

His  selfishness  and  pride  ! 
For  him  the  earth  is  drench'd  with  tears, 

With  human  life-blood  dyed. 
In  his  own  freedom  glorying, 

He  lifts  his  voice  on  high, 
While  on  his  brother's  shrinking  form 

His  crushing  fetters  lie. 


THE  CONSCRIPT'S  FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL,  father ; — 
I  had  hoped  that  I  should  be 
In  thine  age  a  staff  for  thee  ; 
But  when  years  have  mark'd  thy  brow, 
When  thy  step  is  weak  and  slow, 
When  thy  hair  is  thin  and  white, 
And  thine  eye  hath  lost  its  light, 
I  shall  never  seek  thy  side, 
And  thy  faltering  footsteps  guide. 
Where  my  country's  banners  fly 
Proudly  'neath  a  distant  sky, 
To  the  battle  forth  I  speed," 
There  to  fight  and*  there  to  bleed; 
Not  because  the  foeman's  lance 
Glitters  in  the  vales  of  France ; 
Not  because  a  stranger's  mirth 
Rises  round  my  father's  hearth ; 
Not  at  glory's  trumpet  call, 
Nor  in  freedom's  cause  to  fall; 
But  because  ambitious  power 
Tears  me  from  my  peaceful  bower. 
Yet  amidst  the  battle  strife, 
In  the  closing  hours  of  life, 


128  POETICAL   WORKS    OP 

Think  not  that  my  heart  shall  quail, 
Spirit  droop,  or  courage  fail. 
Where  the  boldest  deed  is  done, 
Where  the  laurel-wreath  is  won, 
Where  the  standard  eagles  fly, 
There  thy  son  shall  proudly  die; 
Though,  perhaps,  no  voice  may  tell 
How  the  nameless  conscript  fell ! 
Thy  blessing,  father. 

Farewell,  mother; — 
It  is  hard  to  part  from  thee, 
And  my  tears  are  flowing  free. 
While  around  thee  gloom  and  night 
Quench'd  religion's  blessed  light, 
Still  thou  bad'st  my  lisping  voice 
In  the  evening  hymn  rejoice ; 
And  my  childhood's  prayer  was  said, 
Ere  thou  bless'd  my  pillow'd  head. 
Oh,  before  I  leave  thee  now, 
Place  thy  hand  upon  my  brow, 
And  with  every  treasured  word, 
That  my  infant  ears  have  heard, 

Bless  me,  mother. 

Farewell,  brother ; — 
Many  an  hour  of  boyish  glee, 
I  have  pass'd  in  joy  with  thee  ; 
If  with  careless  act  or  tongue 
I  have  ever  done  thee  wrong, 
Think  upon  thy  brother's  lot, 
And  be  all  his  faults  forgot ; 
Thou  may'st  dry  our  mother's  tears, 
Soothe  our  sisters'  anxious  fears, 
Be  their  shield,  their  guide,  their  stay 
Throughout  many  a  coming  day ; 
Freely  with  thy  father  share 
All  his  secret  weight  of  care  ; 
Be  what  it  were  mine  to  be, 
Had  1  still  remain'd  with  thee, 

And  love  me,  brother. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  129 

Farewell,  sisters ; — 
Yonder  is  our  favourite  vine, 
You  must  now  its  tendrils  twine, 
And  when  'neath  its  leafy  bower, 
You  are  met  at  evening  hour, 
Think  how  oft  in  by-past  days, 
There  we  waked  the  song  of  praise, 
Till  your  beaming  eyes  are  wet 
With  the  tears  of  fond  regret ; 
Then  together  fondly  bend, 
And  your  gentle  voices  blend. 

Pray  for  me,  sisters. 


THE  WOODS  WANDERER. 

DAY  after  day,  I  wander'd  on  alone — 

The  stricken  heart  is  fearless ;  and  the  woods, 

Amidst  whose  far-stretch'd  depths  a  solemn  moan 

Of  winds  was  ever  sounding,  and  whose  floods, 

Pour'd  'midst  unbroken  solitudes,  had  ceased 

To  waken  mine  to  terror.     I  had  learn'd, 

E'en  when  no  moon-beam  the  pale  night  clouds  fleeced, 

To  thread  their  trackless  mazes,  while  I  turn'd 

For  guidance  to  the  stars  that  high  above  me  burn'd. 

They  who  have  never  seen  the  broad  blue  sky, 

Save  through  the  smoke-dimm'd  air  of  crowded  streets 

Can  never  know  how  truly  gloriously 

It  bendeth  o'er  the  wilderness,  and  meets 

The  tall  brows  of  the  mountains.     It  must  be 

The  veriest  clod  that  wears  a  human  form, 

Who  round  him  those  majestic  forms  could  see, 

And  o'er  his  head  the  eagle  and  the  storm, 

Nor  feel  a  nobler  pulse  within  his  bosom  warm. 

I  had  laid  down  to  slumber — but  there  came 

A  sound  that  night  upon  the  fitful  wind, 

That  kept  me  waking.     No  electric  flame 

Flash'd  o'er  the  heavens — yet  my  thoughts  could  finj 

No  sound  more  like  to  it,  than  the  low  growl 


130  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

Of  worn-out  thunder ;  wrapt  in  thought  I  lay, 
With  nature's  glory  telling  to  my  soul 
Of  God's  own  presence,  till  the  coming  day 
O'er  the  fair  orient  stole,  to  light  me  on  my  way. 

I  stood,  at  sunrise,  where  Lake  Erie's  wave 

Caught  on  its  foamy  crest  the  rosy  light ; 

All  round  was  solitude  and  silence,  save 

The  voice  of  nature's  joy.     Against  the  bright 

And  pearly  sky,  a  thin  blue  smoke-curl  rose 

From  the  far  shore,  and  floated  on  the  air, 

And  the  slant  sunbeam  might  to  view  disclose 

One  distant  piroque  that  its  waters  bare  ; 

All  else  was  lone  and  wild,  as  it  was  lovely,  there. 

Still  sent  that  deep  sound  forth  its  solemn  tone, 

Louder  and  louder,  as  I  onward  fared, 

Northward  where  Niagara  led  me  on, 

O'er  tangled  brake,  and  green,  and  flower-strewn  sward. 

At  length  I  reached  the  spot — and  such  a  sight ! 

Even  now  the  wild  blood  rushes  through  my  brain, 

And  my  heart  reels  with  faintness,  as  the  light 

Of  memory  restores  that  scene  again, 

And  paints  it  to  my  view  as  I  beheld  it  then- 

Broad,  dark,  and  deep,  the  river  hurried  on, 

Pouring  the  volume  of  its  mighty  flood 

Right  to  the  yawning  steep ! — no  pause — down— down 

The  gather'd  sea  was  hurl'd  !  half  stunn'd  I  stood 

Upon  the  shaken  earth,  and  almost  wept 

With  awe  and  fear  and  admiration,  wild 

And  passionate  ;•*— like  clouds  on  high  were  swept 

In  spray  the  shatter'd  waves  ;  while  bending  mild, 

Over  the  turbulent  gulf,  a  gorgeous  rainbow  smiled. 

The  sun  went  down  on  that  vast  solitude, — 
And  underneath  the  solemn  stars,  alone 
With  God,  and  his  stupendous  works,  I  stood ; 
Where,  since  their  first  creation,  haply  none 
Save  the  rude  Indian,  e'er  had  trod  or  gazecl 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  131 

On  that  magnificence  !  to  earth  I  bent 

My  humbled  brow,  yet  with  a  soul  upraised* 

And  conscious  of  a  nobler  being,  bent 

By  the  felt  presence  of  the  great  Omnipotent. 


THE  FOREST  VINE. 


IT  grew  in  the  old  wilderness — The  vine 

Is  linked  with  thoughts  of  sunny  Italy, 

Or  the  fair  hills  of  France,  or  the  sweet  vales 

Where  flows  the  Guadalquivir.     But  this  grew 

Where,  as  the  sunlight  look'd  through  lacing  boughs, 

The  shadows  of  the  stern,  tall,  primal  wood 

Fell  round  us,  and  across  the  silent  flood, 

That  wash'd  the  deep  ravine.     The  pauseless  lapse 

Of  ages  had  beheld  no  change  in  all 

The  aspect  of  that  scene ;  or  but  such  change, 

As  Time  himself  had  made ;  the  slow  decay 

Of  the  old  patriarch  oaks,  and  as  they  fell 

And  moulder'd  on  the  earth,  the  silent  growth 

Of  the  young  sturdy  stem,  that  rear'd  itself 

To  stretch  its  branches  in  their  former  place. 

The  wild  flower  stretch'd  its  tender  petals  out, 

Lending  strange  brightness  to  the  forest  gloom ; 

The  fleet  deer  toss'd  his  antlers  to  the  breeze, 

Graceful  and  shy ;  and  when  the  sun  went  down, 

The  tangled  thicket  rustled  to  the  tread 

Of  the  gaunt  wolf — just  as  in  former  years* 

But  the  red  hunter  was  no  longer  there ; 

And  the  bright  flowers  were  no  more  twined  to  deck 

The  brow  of  Indian  maid. 

We  stood  beside 

A  fallen  oak  ;  its  aged  limbs  were  spread 
Prone  to  the  earth,  uptorn  by  the  rude  wind, 
And  perishing  on  the  soil  that  once  had  fed 
Their  giant  strength  :  clinging  around  its  roots 
And  its  decaying  trunk,  a  grape-vine  wreathed 
Its  fresh  green  foliage,  draping  the  still  grave 
With  its  luxuriance — meet  garniture 


132  POETICAL   WORKS    OP 

For  such  a  sepulchre !  a  sepulchre  most  meet 

To  wrap  the  bones  of  the  old  forest  race  ! 

For  we  had  checked  our  idle  wanderings 

To  gaze  upon  the  relics  of  the  dead — 

The  dead  of  other  ages  !  they  who  trod 

When  that  fallen  tree  was  fresh  in  its  green  prime, — 

The  earth  that  it  now  cumber'd  ;  they  who  once 

In  savage  freedom  bounded  through  the  wild, 

And  quaff 'd  the  limpid  spring,  or  shot  along 

The  swift  canoe  upon  yon  rushing  wave, 

Or  yell'd  the  fierce  and  horrid  war  whoop  round, 

Or  gather'd  to  the  council  fire,  or  sprang 

With  proud  firm  step  to  mingle  in  the  dance, 

And  vaunt  of  their  own  triumphs  ; — there  they  lie, 

Brittle  and  time-blanch'd  fragments !  bones — dry  bones  ! 

Prison'd  for  lingering  years  beneath  the  sod, 

And  now  that  the  strong  wind  hath  torn  away 

The  bars  of  their  dark  cell,  restored  again 

To  the  clear  sunshine.     It  seems  strange  to  think 

That  those  wan  relics  once  were  clothed  with  life — 

Breathing  and  living  flesh — and  sprang  away 

O'er  the  green  hills  at  morning,  and  at  eve, 

Return'd  again  to  the  low  cabin  home, 

And  found  its  shadows  happiness. 

That  dust- 
Gather  some  to  thee — the  keen  eye  can  mark 
No  difference  from  that  spread  widely  round — 
The  common  earth  we  tread  upon  ;  yet  this 
Once  help'd  to  form  the  garment  of  a  mind 
Once  wrapp'd  a  human  heart,  and  thrill'd  with  all 
The  emotions  of  man's  nature  ;  love  and  hate, 
Sweet  hope  and  stern  revenge — ay,  even  faith 
In  an  undying  world. 

So  let  them  rest ! 

That  faith,  erring  and  dark  as  it  might  be, 
Was  yet  not  wholly  vain.     We  may  not  know 
Of  what  the  dark  grave  hideth;  but  the  soul* 
Immortal  as  eternity  itself, 
Is  in  the  hands  of  One  most  merciful. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET  CHANDLER.  133 


SOLILOQUY  OF   A  DUELLIST. 

THEY  all  at  length  have  left  me — long  I  wish'd 
While  round  me  with  officious  care  they  stood, 
To  dress  this  paltry  wound,  to  be  alone  ; 
And  now  I  find  that  solitude  is  dreadful — 
Dreadful  to  one,  upon  whose  burning  soul, 
The  weight  of  murder  rests !    Oh,  would  to  heaven 
This  day  were  blotted  from  the  scroll  of  time : 
Or,  as  indeed  it  seems,  that  some  wild  dream 
Had  wrapp'd  me  in  its  horrid  tangled  maze. 
It  is  a  dream, — it  must  be, — o'er  my  brain 
Such  strange  bewildering  scenes  in  memory  crowd, 
As  are  not,  cannot  be  reality  ; 
And  yet  this  agony  is  too  intense, 
'T  would  rive  the  chains  of  sleep.    This  stiffened  arm, 
These  bandages,  and  the  sharp  pain  which  shoots 
Across  my  burning  temples — these  are  real — 
Oh,  no — 't  is  not  the  phantasy  of  sleep — 
He  does  lie  bleeding,  yonder,  pale  and  dead; 
I,  too,  am  slightly  wounded. — Would  to  heaven 
The  erring  ball,  that  pierced  this  guilty  arm, 
Had  found  a  goal  within  my  guiltier  breast, 
Ere  I  had  lived  to  be  a  murderer — * 
A  hateful  murderer,  still  living  on 
Beneath  the  weight,  the  torment  of  a  curse, 
Heavy  as  that  of  Cain,  the  stain  of  blood 
Forever  on  my  conscience,  crying  out 
To  heaven  for  vengeance.     Yet  my  wounded  honour 
Claim'd,  sure,  some  reparation  for  the  blot 
His  language  on  it  cast.     Could  I  have  lived 
Beneath  the  brand  of  cowardice,  and  borne 
The  sneer  and  the  expression  of  contempt, 
That  would  have  follow'd  me  from  every  lip  ? 
He  gave  the  challenge,  and  could  I  refuse  ? 
I  could  not- — yet  I  might — I  could — I  could — 
The  offence  was  mine,  and  mine  is  all  the  guilt. 
Why  o'er  my  heated  passions  could  I  not 
One  instant  hold  the  reins  of  self-control? 
12 


134  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

One  single  moment  of  deliberate  thought 

And  cloudless  reason,  would  have  spared  me  all 

This  guilt,  this  agony.    The  approving  smiles 

Of  peaceful  conscience,  and  mine  own  respect, 

Had  balanced  well  the  idle  laugh  of  fools — 

And  now,  what  am  I  now  1  I  dare  not  think  ! 

The  stain  of  life-blood  is  upon  my  soul — 

The  life-blood  of  my  friend — he  was  my  friend, 

And  I  have  kill'd  him  !    Oh,  that  this  dark  hour 

Of  deep  remorseful  anguish  might  recall 

The  moments  that  have  pass'd.     My  wife ! — my  wife ! 

I  cannot  meet  thee  thus.     I  hate  myself — 

All  whom  I  have  loved,  and  e'en  thou  wilt  hate  me. 

Oh !  would  that  I  were  dead — I  will  not  live 

To  meet  thy  tearful  eye  in  sorrow  bent 

O'er  one  who  once  could  wake  its  proudest  smile. 

I  cannot  pray — I  dare  not  call  on  Heaven, 

To  pardon  my  offence — before  the  throne, 

Even  at  the  mercy-seat,  his  bleeding  form 

Would  mock  my  agony,  and  drive  me  thence. 

How  can  I  look  on  those  whose  hearts  my  hand 

Has  made  so  desolate  ?    His  mother's  eye 

Has  often  smiled  in  kindness  on  my  boyhood, 

And  such  has  been  my  gratitude,  to  wring 

The  last  bright  drops  of  comfort  from  her  heart, 

And  cloud  the  evening  of  her  life  with  woe. 

His  sisters,  in  their  tears,  demand  of  me 

Their  loved,  their  murder'd  one — -and  there  he  lies, 

Cut  off  in  all  the  bloom  of  health  and  youth. 

There  lies  the  fatal  instrument,  and  there 

Its  fellow  lies  to  tempt  me — loaded  still ; 

I  dare  not  think — the  future  and  the  past 

Are  fraught  alike  with  images  of  horror. 

Blood  calls  for  blood,  and  mine  own  hand  shall  pay 

The  debt  of  justice.     Crime  shall  wash  out  crime — 

I  dare  not  look  into  eternity — 

Oh,  God !  Oh,  God  !  forgive  me  for  this  deed  ! 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  135 

THE    WIFE'S    LAMENT. 
LOUD  howls  the  wintry  blast,   the  rain  descends, 
And  patters  heavy  on  the  ice-glazed  roof; 
But  yet  he  comes  not.     'T  is  a  dreary  night — 
Long  since,  the  midnight  bell  hath  toll'd  the  hour. 
And  long,  long  since,  my  womanish  fears  had  framed 
Some  reason  dread,  for  absence  thus  prolong'd, 
But  that  so  oft  't  is  thus.     Oh  !  had  I  once 
But  even  thought  that  thus  thy  love  might  change, 
I  should  have  shudder'd  at  the  bare  surmise, 
And  chid  myself  in  anger  for  the  thought. 
But  now,  I  feel  it  true,  and  yet  I  live, 
I  live  to  feel  thy  heart,  thyself  estranged, 
From  all  that  once  it  loved — to  sit  alone, 
And  number  out  the  weary  midnight  hours 
That  waste  with  thee  in  revelry  and  mirth, 
And  weep  in  sadness  at  thy  long  delay. 
Oh,  Henry !  once — but  I  will  not  look  back, 
Nor  think  of  present,  past,  or  future  scenes, 
Or  thought  would  madden  me.     But  hark !  again 
The  watch  proclaims  the  second  morning  hour, 
And  still  he  lingers.     Sure,  some  dire  mischance 
Delays  his  coming — but  it  is  not  so — 
How  often  I  have  wept  in  terror  wild, 
And  almost  wish'd  't  were  rather  guilt,  than  harm, 
That  kept  him  from  my  arms — and  he  has  come, 
And  I  have  half  forgotten  alt  my  woe, 
In  joy  at  his  approach,  till  his  cold  frown 
Has  chill'd  my  heart  to  stone !  And  yet  this  night, 
While  all  the  elements  seem  bent  on  war, 
He  surely  could  not,  would  not,  leave  me  thus, 
And  join  the  laugh  of  riot.    Oh,  Henry,  Henry, 
Changed,  cruel,  as  thou  art,  I  love  thee  still ! 
My  peace,  my  life,  are  woven  in  thy  fate, 
And  freely  would  I  give  that  life  for  thine. 
And  thou— thou  couldst  not  change,  so  wholly  change 
From  all  I  knew  thee  once — thou  lov'st  me  yet  ; 
It  is  some  secret  anguish  breaks  thy  peace, 
And  thence  thine  alter'd  looks — But,  hark !  he  comes, 
Thank  heaven,  he  is  safe !    Be  dry,  my  tears  ! 


136  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

My  face  must  wear  a  smile  at  his  approach ; 
I  will  not  greet  him  save  with  looks  of  joy, 
Although  my  aching  heart  in  anguish  bleeds, 
And  mourns  his  early  alienated  love  ! 


THE    SLAVE-SHIP. 

THE  Slave-ship  was  winding  her  course  o'er  the  ocean, 
The  winds  and  the  waters  had  sunk  into  rest ; 

All  hush'd  was  the  whirl  of  the  tempest's  commotion, 

That  late  had  awaken'd  the  sailor's  devotion, 
When  terror  had  kindled  remorse  in  his  breast. 

And  onward  she  rode,  though  by  curses  attended, 

Though  heavy  with  guilt  was  the  freight  that  she  bore, 
Though  with  shrieks  of  despair  was  the  midnight  air  rended, 
And  ceaseless  the  groans  of  the  wretches  ascended, 
That  from  friends  and  from  country  forever  she  tore. 

On  the  deck,  with  his  head  on  his  fetter'd  hand  rested, 

He  who  once  was  a  chief  and  a  warrior  stood ; 
One  moment  he  gain'd,  by  his  foes  unmolested, 
To  think  o'er  his  woes,  and  the  fate  he  detested, 
Till  madness  was  firing  his  brain  and  his  blood. 

"  Oh,  never  !"  he  murmur'd  in  anguish,  "  no,  never  ! 

These  limbs  shall  be  bent  to  the  menial's  toil ! 
They  have  reft  us,  my  bride — but  they  shall  not  forever 
Your  chief  from  his  home  and  his  country  dissever — 

No  !  never  will  I  be  the  conqueror's  spoil 

"  Say !  long  didst  thou  wait  for  my  coming,  my  mother  ? 

Did  ye  bend  o'er  the  desert,  my  sister,  your  eye  ? 
And  weep  at  the  lengthen'd  delay  of  your  brother, 
As  each  slow  passing  moment  was  chased  by  another, 

And  still  he  appear'd  not  a  tear-drop  to  dry. 

"  But  ye  shall — yes,  again  ye  shall  fondly  embrace  me ! 

We  will  meet  my  young  bride  in  the  land  of  the  blest : 
Death,  death  once  again  in  my  country  shall  place  me, 
One  bound  shall  forever  from  fetters  release  me !" 

He  burst  them,  and  sunk  in  the  ocean's  dark  breast. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  137 

THE  TREATY  OF  PENN. 

INDIAN    CHIEF. 

ART  thou  chief  of  the  white  men  that  crowd  on  the  strand  ? 

No  broad  gleaming  sword  flashes  bright  in  thy  hand — 

No  plume,  proudly  waving,  sits  light  on  thy  brow — 

Nor  with  hate  and  contempt  does  thine  eye  darkly  glow. 

I  have  seen  the  white  chieftains,  but  proudly  they  stood ; 

Though  they  call'd  us  their  brethren,  they  thirst  for  our  blood : 

With  the  peace-belt  of  wampum  they  stretch'd  forth  one  hand, 

With  the  other  they  wielded  the  death-doing  brand. 

On  their  lip  was  the  calumet — war  on  their  brow  ; 

But  thine  scowls  not  with  hatred — a  chieftain  art  thou  ? — 

PENN. 

My  brethren  are  those  whom  thou  see'st  on  the  strand, 
My  friends,  whom  I  govern  with  fatherly  hand; 
We  worship  the  spirit  who  rules  from  above, 
Our  watchword  is  peace,  and  our  motto  is  love. 
We  fight  not,  we  war  not,  for  life  or  for  land, 
And  the  weapons  of  death  never  darken  our  hand. 
The  land  that  in  purchase  ye  cheerfully  give, 
Will  we,  for  our  friends  and  our  brethren,  receive ; 
But  we  will  not  deprive  you,  by  force  or  by  fraud, 
Of  the  land  that  yourselves  and  your  fathers  have  trod. 

CHIEF. 

Then  deep  be  the  tomahawk  buried  from  sight ; 

The  peace-tree  shall  bloom  where  it  slumbers  in  night. 

We  will  bury  from  sight  and  from  mem'ry  the  dead ; 

We  will  plant  o'er  the  spot  where  their  blood  has  been  shed ; 

O'er  their  grave  shall  the  green  maize  its  tassels  expand : — 

But  whether  the  white  men  by  force  wrest  our  land, 

Or  whether  they  win  it  in  war  or  in  peace, 

Our  hunting  grounds  narrow,  our  tribes  still  decrease. 

PENN. 

O'er  the  land  that  I  purchase  ye  freely  may  rove ; 
We  will  dwell  in  the  spirit  of  brotherly  love — 
By  mutual  kindness  we  both  shall  be  blest, 
Your  wrongs,  as  the  white  man's,  be  promptly  redrest. 

12* 


138  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 

We  will  teach  you  with  justice,  our  knowledge  impart, 
And  teach  you  each  useful  and  civilized  art. 
We  extend  you,  in  truth  and  in  friendship,  our  hand, 
We  will  turn  to  the  plough-share  the  death-dealing  brand. 
One  hand  hath  created  the  white  man  and  red ; 
One  spirit  we  worship,  though  different  our  creed ; 
And  that  God  who  looks  down  on  our  acts  from  above, 
Still  conceals  in  dark  frowns  the  fair  face  of  his  love 
From  the  land  that  is  darken'd  with  bloodshed  and  rage, 
Where  brethren  with  brethren  in  battle  engage. 

CHIEF. 

We  have  listen'd,  my  father,  your  peaceable  talk ; 

In  the  path  you  have  chosen  we  cheerfully  walk. 

The  white  men  have  wrong'd  us,  have  crimson'd  our  plains, 

Where  our  forefathers  sleep,  with  the  blood  of  our  veins. 

Of  those  plains  they  have  reft  us,  the  fairest  and  best, 

And  have  forced  us  to  seek  other  homes  in  the  west ; 

Through  the  wilds  of  the  forest  to  follow  the  chase, 

Till  brambles  have  choked  up  the  pathway  of  peace. 

Yet  as  still  we  receded  our  heroes  were  slain,     . 

Our  wives  and  our  children  lie  dead  on  the  plain. 

Then  we  dug  from  the  earth  the  fell  hatchet  of  war, 

While  our  whoop  of  destruction  was  heard  from  afar. 

We  rush'd  on  our  foemen,  we  fought  and  we  bled, 

But  our  arms  with  the  blood  of  the  white  men  were  red ; 

Yet,  father,  the  red  man  delights  not  in  war, 

And  thy  words  shall  the  spring-time  of  friendship  restore. 

Now  again  we  will  bury  the  hatchet,  again 

We  will  burnish  the  links  of  our  amity's  chain. 

We  will  root  out  the  weeds  from  the  path  of  our  peace, 

And  all  hatred  and  battle  betwixt  us  shall  cease. 


MIDNIGHT. 

How  solemn  is  the  silence  of  this  hour  ! 
The  world  is  hush'd !    all  nature  lies  in  sleep — 
Save  where  rude  jollity  upholds  her  power, 
Or  wearied  wretches  waken  but  to  weep. 
Strange  contrast !  that  there  revelry  should  keep 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  139 

Her  wassail  wild  amid  the  gloom  of  night, 

And  here,  her  thorny  couch  pale  sorrow  steep 

With  bitter  tears,  and  strain  her  aching  sight, 

To  catch  the  first  pale  streak  that  ushers  in  the  light. 

E'en  now  perchance  some  widow'd  mother  hangs, 

In  hopeless  anguish,  o'er  her  dying  child, 

And  marks  with  bursting  heart  its  parting  pangs. 

Or  covers  its  pale  lips  with  kisses  wild ; 

While  memory  tells  how  oft  it  has  beguiled 

Of  half  its  loneliness  her  dreary  heart — 

And  when  in  its  bright  joyousness  it  smiled, 

Albeit  within  her  eye  the  tear  might  start, 

She  knew  not,  could  not  know,  that  they  so  soon  must  part 

Its  closing  eye  is  faintly  turn'd  on  her, 

Its  breath  comes  thickly,  and  the  dews  of  death 

Are  on  its  forehead — one  convulsive  stir — 

One  half-form'd  smile  to  speed  the  parting  breath — 

Then  all  is  past — and  gazing  on  that  scathe 

Of  all  her  hopes — in  tearless  agony, 

The  mother  stands,  until  awakening  faith 

Points  out  another  world — a  hope  on  high — 

And  fast  her  feelings  gush  in  torrents  to  her  eye  ! 

But  this  is  fancy— for  no  sound  is  near, 

Of  joy  or  sadness — all  around  is  still ! 

Not  e'en  the  night-bird's  voice  salutes  mine  ear, 

Nor  the  faint  murmur  of  the  distant  rill — 

The  very  winds  are  hush'd — and  on  the  hill 

The  trees  are  motionless — the  whisp'ring  sigh, 

That  lingers  where  the  blast  was  piping  shrill, 

Moves  not  the  branches  as  it  passes  by, 

Nor  lifts  the  bending  leaves  that  on  the  waters  lie. 

The  deep  blue  heaven  with  clust'ring  stars  is  bright, 
And  in  the  midst  the  moon,  sublimely  fair, 
Sheds  o'er  the  fleecy  clouds  her  silvery  light, 
That  in  bright  wreaths  are  floating  lightly  there, 
Like  snow-flakes  scattered  o'er  the  silent  air. 


140  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

And  coldly  still  that  moon's  pale  lustre  lies, 
Alike  on  haunts  of  misery  and  despair ; 
And  where  the  sounds  of  wassail  joy  arise, 
Disturbing  with  rude  mirth  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  earth  is  slumbering !  but  I  will  not  sleep, 

For  I  do  love  to  gaze  on  yon  bright  sky, 

And  all  those  countless  orbs,  that  seem  to  keep 

Their  nightly  ward  so  silently  on  high — 

My  heart  may  swell,  but  't  is  not  with  the  sigh 

Of  painful  feeling — nor  does  aught  of  woe 

Awake  the  tear-drop  in  my  moisten'd  eye ; 

But  unexpress'd  emotion,  and  the  glow 

Of  all  the  crowding  thoughts,  that  round  my  bosom  flow. 


THE  NEGRO  FATHER'S  LAMENTATION  OVER  THE  BODY 
OF  HIS  INFANT  SON. 

THOU  'RT  dead,  my  boy ! — my  son  ! — my  only  child ! — 

And  yet  I  may  not  shed  one  tear  for  thee, 
Nor  hanging  o'er  thy  bier  in  anguish  wild, 

Upbraid  the  hand  that  bore  thee  far  from  me : 
I  cannot  wish  that  thou  hadst  lived  to  share 
Thy  father's  fate — his  woes — and  his  despair ! 

I  loved  thee — oh  !  I  need  not  say  how  well ! 

Thou  wert  my  all  of  hopes  or  bliss  on  earth ! 
Yet  I  will  not  repine  that  thou  dost  dwell 

In  happiness,  with  her  who  gave  thee  birth, 
While  I,  like  yon  dark  rock  of  naked  stone, 
Must  bear  the  storms  that  round  me  beat,  alone. 

'Tis  well !     Thou  wilt  not  share  those  storms  with  me, 

That  is  my  all  of  comfort  in  this  hour — 
I  weep  not,  though  I  would  have  died  for  thee ! 

Ay,  more  than  died — that  sacrifice  were  poor — 
I  would  have  spurn'd  the  hand  that  set  me  free, 
And  clasp'd  my  chain,  and  lived  a  slave,  for  thee. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  141 

My  boy  !  my  darling  boy  !  farewell,  farewell ! 

Thou  ne'er  shalt  feel  the  pangs  that  rend  me  now, 
For  still  my  heart  with  agony  will  swell, 

To  think,  that  never  more  upon  my  brow, 
Thy  little  lips  with  fondness  shall  be  prest, 
As  when  I  oft  have  clasp'd  thee  to  my  breast. 

Yes !  fare  thee  well !  thy  fond  caress  no  more 
Shall  soothe  the  tortured  throbbing  of  my  heart, 

As  it  full  oft  has  done,  when  tyrant  power 
Has  trampled  me  to  earth,  and  round  me  prest 

The  chain  of  slavery,  till  my  swelling  heart 

Has  madden'd  into  frenzy  with  the  smart. 

Yet  even  then,  though  thou  couldst  calm  my  soul, 
With  thy  soft  lisping  voice  and  childish  glee, 

While  clasping  thee,  sad  thoughts  would  o'er  me  roll, 
Of  what  must  be  thy  future  destiny, 

Till  my  hot  tears  have  wet  thy  little  face, 

And  thou  hast  wonder'd  at  my  wild  embrace. 

But  thou  art  dead ! — it  ne'er  will  be  thy  fate 

To  tremble  at  a  cruel  tyrant's  frowns — - 
To  bend  in  servile  toil,  to  feed  his  state, 

To  feel  the  lash,  and  hear  him  mock  thy  groans. 
Then  fare  thee  well ! — thy  father  will  not  weep, 
Or  wish  to  wake  thee  from  thy  peaceful  sleep. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  TWO  CHILDREN, 

WRITTEN   WHEN   BUT   FIFTEEN   YEARS   OF   AGE. 

THEY  sleep !  but  not  theirs  is  the  slumber  that  breaketh, 
When  night  with  its  gloom  and  its  darkness  hath  flown ; 

The  morn  in  the  light  of  its  beauty  awaketh, 

But  in  silence  and  darkness  they  still  slumber  on : 

They  sleep,  but  no  visions  of  sleep  are  around  them, 

That  silence,  that  darkness,  can  never  confound  them  ; 

For  death,  icy  death,  in  his  fetters  hath  bound  them, 
And  round  the  young  spirit  his  cold  spell  hath  thrown* 


142  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

Together  in  youth's  brightest  bloom  they  have  withered, 
Ere  grief  their  young  spirits  had  clouded  with  gloom, 
And  like  flowers,  in  the  light  of  their  loveliness  gather'd, 
Whose  fragrance  is  sweetest  when  faded  their  bloom ; 
So  still  shall  their  memory  fondly  be  nourish'd, 
In  the  hearts  of  their  friends  shall  their  virtues  be  cherish'd, 
And  though  in  the  prime  of  their  life  they  have  perish'd, 
Their  remembrance  shall  be  as  a  grateful  perfume. 

It  is  sad  to  see  youth  in  its  loveliness  dying, 

Ere  the  freshness  of  spirit  hath  wasted  away, 
While  the  earth  seems  around  like  a  paradise  lying, 

And  the  hopes  of  the  bosom  too  bright  for  decay- 
Before  life's  cup  of  care  hath  imparted  its  fever — 
Ere  hope,  smiling  hope  hath  been  proved  a  deceiver—- 
This world  seems  too  lovely  to  part  with  forever, 
To  mingle  again  with  inanimate  clay. 

And  thus  have  they  died  while  their  hopes  were  the  fairest, 

While  life  only  seem'd  like  a  beautiful  dream, 
Adorn'd  with  whatever  is  richest  or  rarest, 

Whatever  most  bright  to  the  senses  may  seem—- 
They died,  and  the  cold  turf  is  resting  above  them — 
They  heed  not  the  grief  of  the  bosoms  that  love  them, 
The  tears  of  affection  no  longer  can  move  them, 
Or  wake  them  again  to  the  day's  joyous  beam. 

Consumption  !  't  is  thou  that  their  life-springs  hast  wasted  ! 

'T  is  thou  that  hast  wither'd  the  bud  in  its  bloom ! 
}T  is  thou  the  young  tree  in  its  greenness  hast  blasted, 

And  o'er  them  hast  thrown  the  dark  veil  of  the  tomb ! 
Thou  foe  to  the  lovely,  the  gay,  and  the  blooming ! 
How  soon  the  bright  spirit,  the  features  illuming, 
Will  fade  from  the  cheek  and  the  eye  at  thy  coming, 

Save  when  the  bright  hectic  disperses  their  gloom. 

O  Death !  it  is  strange  how  thy  cold  touch  will  alter 
The  forms  that  so  lately  were  healthy  and  gay — 

On  the  lips  once  so  bright,  life  a  moment  will  falter, 
The  next,  they  are  pallid  and  motionless  clay. 

The  lips  and  the  eyes  with  bright  happiness  glowing, 

The  bosom  proud  beating  of  sorrow  unknowing, 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  143 

The  gush  of  emotion  around  the  heart  glowing, 
How  soon  will  they  perish  and  wither  away ! 

And  yet,  it  were  better  to  die  in  life's  morning, 

Before  we  have  seen  its  illusions  depart, 
Than  to  live  when  the  flowers  that  our  life  were  adorning, 

Have  wither'd,  and  hope  hath  deserted  the  heart-— 
'T  were  better,  when  mandate  of  death  has  been  spoken, 
That  slowly  and  singly  life's  chords  should  be  broken, 
Than  in  health's  brightest  bloom  without  warning  or  token 

At  once  to  be  stricken  by  death's  fatal  dart. 

Had  they  lived,  other  ties  to  the  earth  would  have  bound  them, 

Withholding  the  spirit  from  rising  on  high, 
And  dearer  and  warmer  affections  twined  round  them, 

Embittering  doubly  the  life-parting  sigh — 
When  parents  for  stay  on  the  young  are  reclining 
When  husband  or  wife  round  the  bosom  are  twining, 
Or  orphans  are  left  in  the  cold  world  repining, 

Oh  !  then  it  indeed  must  be  anguish  to  die. 

It  is  painful  to  stand  by  the  couch  of  the  dying, 

And  watch  the  pale  form  speeding  fast  to  decay, 
In  anguish  to  list  to  the  half- broken  sighing, 

That  tells  from  the  heart  life  is  stealing  away, 
Yet  then — while  its  flight  the  loved  spirit  is  winging, 
While  in  agony  round  the  pale  form  we  are  clinging, 
Even  then — brighter  hopes  in  the  bosom  are  springing, 
As  we  feel  that  our  parting  is  but  for  to-day. 


TO  A  FRIEND  OF  MY  YOUTH. 

WE  met  in  childhood — careless  met, 
Nor  wept  to  think  that  we  must  sever ; 

We  parted  with  no  fond  regret — 
No  tear  lest  we  should  part  forever. 

Our  souls  had  not  commingled  then ; 

The  wreath  of  Friendship  had  not  bound  us } 
We  knew  not  we  should  meet  again, — 

And  yet  our  parting  did  not  wound  us. 


144  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Again  we  met — long  years  have  flown, 
The  sun  of  youth  has  risen  o'er  us, 

And  friends  we  loved  have  smiled  and  gone, 
And  changing  scenes  have  pass'd  before  us.- 

We  meet ! — but  not  again  to  part, 

Without  one  transient  pang  of  mourning ; 

Oh  no  !  the  burning  tear  would  start, 
At  thought  of  joys  no  more  returning. 

For  we  have  stray 'd  at  silent  eve, 

Beneath  the  crescent  brightly  beaming, 

And  social  converse  loved  to  weave, 

Around  the  warm  hearth  cheerful  gleaming. 

We  yet  may  part — in  distant  land 
Afar  to  roam  we  know  not  whither — 

But  still  be  Friendship's  flowery  band 

The  wreath  that  twines  our  souls  together. 


TWILIGHT    THOUGHTS. 

THE  sun  hath  set  in  glory — and  a  fold 

Of  burnish'd  purple  lies  upon  the  sky, 

Like  the  rich  thought  of  some  just  parted  joy, 

Yet  thrilling  vividly  around  the  heart. 

The  year's  first  sunset ; — 't  is  most  beautiful ! 

Would  it  might  be  an  augury  of  good 

To  the  fair  land  it  shines  on.     But,  alas ! 

What  may  we  hope  of  blessing  for  the  head 

Of  unrepenting  guilt ; — or,  for  the  hand 

• — Red  with  the  stain  of  murder,  full  of  wrong 

And  foul  oppression — shamelessly  stretch'd  out 

To  scatter  to  the  winds  the  solemn  oaths 

Of  broken  treaty  bands.     The  red  man  looks 

Across  his  fathers'  lands,  and  thinks  how  once 

They  fed  the  white-brow'd  stranger,  when  he  came 

With  his  weak  hand  to  their  low  forest  hut, 

And  they  could  well  have  crush'd  him.     Now  he  seeks 

From  the  poor  wasted  remnant  of  their  sons, 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  145 

To  rend  their  last  few  acres, — sacred  spots 
Where  the  dead  lie  unsepulchred  ! — and  drive 
The  newly  blest  ones  from  their  scarce  found  joys 
Of  home  and  social  love,  to  be  again 
Sad  houseless  wanderers ! 

Years  go  circling  by 

With  all  their  rolling  suns  and  changing  scenes, 
In  regular  progression,  and  the  slave 
Still  bends  his  aching  forehead  to  the  toil 
That  brings  him  no  reward.     Another  year ! — 
And  still  the  Christian  loads  his  brother's  neck 
With  the  vile  weight  of  fetters- — tasks  his  arm 
And  goads  his  sinews  to  their  daily  toil, 
With  the  keen  lash,  or,  in  the  market-place, 
Bids  him  be  number'd  with  the  brute  and  sold ! 
Another  year !  and  shall  that  too  go  by, 
And  find  his  wrongs  uncared  for  ?     Shall  he  still 
Groan  'neath  his  lot  till  life  at  last  goes  out, 
And  win  no  sympathy'?     Oh  ye  who  love 
Your  Maker's  image,  even  in  the  slave, 
Shake  from  your  hearts  all  thoughts  of  selfishness, 
And  with  tears,  prayers,  and  every  energy, 
Stretch'd  to  its  firmest  purpose,  in  his  cause, 
Cease  not  to  plead,  to  struggle,  to  persuade, 
'Till  ye  have  won  him  back  his  long  lost  rights, 
Or  your  own  hearts  are  slumbering  in  death. 


TO  A*****. 

MY  own  Annette !  my  own  Annette ! 

How  often  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee, 
And  those  sweet  hours  when  erst  we  met, 

And  shared  our  thoughts  in  converse  free ! 

Around  me  the  soft  moonshine  pours 

A  quiet  flood  of  silver  light ; 
And  thus  o'er  memory's  hoarded  stores, 

The  star  of  thought  is  gleaming  bright* 
13 


146  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

Yet,  though  long  years  have  glided  past, 
Since  last  thy  hand  was  clasp'd  in  mine, 

The  chain  that  friendship  o'er  us  cast, 
Hath  felt  no  link  of  love  untwine. 

And  we  may  meet  in  other  hours, 

And  love  where  we  have  loved,  again ; 

And  talk  of  all  the  early  flowers 
We  gather'd  on  life's  by-past  plain. 

But  there  are  stronger  ties  than  ours, 
Remorseless  rent  by  cruel  hands ; 

Torn  hearts,  o'er  which  no  future  hours 
Shall  fling  again  the  sever'd  bands. 

Oh !  let  us  weep  with  those  who  weep, 
Beneath  oppression's  crushing  hand  ; 

And  in  our  thoughts  their  anguish  keep 
Who  till  in  tears  our  guilty  land. 


REMEMBER  ME. 

WHEN  the  sinking  sunbeams  lie 
On  the  forest  branches  high ; 
When  the  twilight  hour  steals  on, 
With  its  hush  and  soothing  tone, 
And  the  care  that  day  hath  wrought 
Passes  from  the  soften'd  thought, 

Remember  me. 

When,  like  smiles  from  those  we  love, 
Falls  the  moonlight  from  above  ; 
When  with  evening's  earliest  star, 
Wakes  the  thought  of  those  afar, 
And  around  thy  bosom's  cell, 
Memory  flings  her  holiest  spell, 

Remember  me. 

When  the  poet's  high-wrought  words — 
When  the  song  of  woodland  birds — 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  147 

When  the  gush  of  shaded  streams 
Mingles  with  thy  spirit's  dreams, 
And  whate'er  o'er  thought  may  cast 
Pensive  hues  of  moments  past, 

Remember  me. 


SCHUYLKILL. 

WRITTEN   IN   AN    ALBUM. 

SUN-LIT  and  shadow'd  waters,  leaping  by 
'Midst  flowers  and  greenness,  singing  as  they  pass, 
Or  sleeping  in  some  deep  and  shaded  pool, 
Lake-like,  and  dimpled  by  the  playful  touch 
Of  stooping  branches,  rocks  vine-garlanded, 
And  the  green  pleasant  woods,  and  over  all 
The  wide  blue  glorious  sky — oh  it  is  sweet 
To  breathe  amid  such  scenes  ! 

Look  on  the  page 

Of  Schuylkill's  pictured  beauty  !  that  is  such — 
And  thou  may'st  gaze,  till  it  shall  waken  thoughts 
Treasured  in  memory — for  thou  hast  watch'd 
The  flashing  of  its  waters,  and  hast  stood, 
Perchance,  beside  them,  when  the  moonlight  made 
The  scene  a  paradise,  and  friends  were  nigh, 
Smiling  with  their  glad  eyes  upon  thy  joy  ; 
And  music  floated  off  upon  the  air, 
As  if  the  zephyrs  breathed  in  melody. 
Now  other  scenes  are  round  thee — it  is  fair — 
This  wide  extended  landscape — but  unlike 
To  that  the  Schuylkill  mirrors.     The  old  trees 
That  lift  their  tall  green  heads  against  the  sky, 
Are  relics  of  past  ages,  and  there  seems, 
Beneath  their  dim  gray  shade,  to  linger  yet 
A  faint  and  mournful  echo  of  the  tones 
Of  the  old  forest  tribes. 

But  when  the  hush, 

And  the  dim  beauty  of  the  twilight  steals 
O'er  the  calm  earth,  and  on  thy  spirit  lies 
A  shadow  and  a  pensiveness  as  sweet, 


148  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

Then  memory  will  lift  the  mystic  screen 
That  veils  departed  years,  and  give  them  back 
The  consecrated  past ;  and  thou  shalt  stand 
'Midst  scenes  where  thou  hast  stood  in  other  days ; 
And  the  gay  laugh,  and  the  remember'd  tone, 
Will  seem,  with  startling  vividness,  to  thrill 
Across  thy  ear — but  mine  will  not  be  there  ; 
Thy  memory  hath  no  garner'd  thought  of  me — 
Yet  think  of  me,  for  there  may  gleam  a  light 
Amidst  thy  twilight  dreams,  from  scenes  to  which 
I  turn  for  my  most  sweet  remembrances ; 
Oh,  how  one  charmed  word  will  start  to  life 
A  thousand  breathing  memories  of  the  past ! 
Schuylkill !  sweet  Schuylkill !  and  still  dearer  loved, 
And  hallow'd  with  yet  deeper,  sweeter  thoughts, 
My  own  dear  native  vale,  and  the  bright  flood* 
That  makes  it  beautiful !  name  them  again, 
For  thou  hast  trodden  there,  and  let  me  dwell 
With  thee  upon  the  past !    Yet  they  will  come 
To  thee,  with  but  a  stranger's  parting  glance 
Of  brief  and  pleasant  memory — to  rne — 
With  tales  of  childhood's  years,  of  hours  of  glee, 
Friendships,  and  tears,  and  rainbow-pinion'd  hopes, 
And  all  the  sacred  thoughts  that  halo  home ! 


DEATH. 
I  HAVE  been  gazing  on  the  resting  place 

Of  the  cold  sleepers  of  the  earth — who  trod 
This  busy  planet  for  a  little  space, 

Then  laid  them  down,  and  took  the  verdant  sod 
To  curtain  the  low  cot  wherein  they  slept, 
Forgotten  save  by  some  few  hearts  that  o'er  them  wept. 

'T  is  strange — so  lately  they  were  living  forms, 
Breathing  and  moving  ;  now  the  vernal  sun 

Looks  down  upon  their  silent  graves,  nor  warms 
One  pulse  to  actions-life  with  them  is  done  ; 

And  the  turf  blooms  as  quietly,  as  though 

No  forms  of  human  mould  were  slumbering  below. 

*  The  Brandy  wine. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  149 

And  this  shall  be  my  lot ! — a  little  while, 

And  I  shall,  too,  lie  down  and  be  at  rest, 
In  silence  and  in  darkness ;  earth  will  smile 

In  spring's  rich  garniture,  and  o'er  my  breast 
The  wild-flower  shed  its  sweets — but  there  will  be 
No  gladness  in  bright  hues  or  fragrant  breath  for  me. 

Oh,  Death  !  they  call  thee  terrible — but  life 
Hath  pain,  and  blighted  hopes  and  bitter  tears, 

The  pang  of  keen  remorse,  the  daily  strife 

'Twixt  jarring  passions,  the  false  smile  that  sears 

The  heart  to  kindly  feelings,  and  the  dread, 

That  e'en  what  bliss  is  ours,  within  our  grasp  will  fade. 

Nor  is  it  very  dreadful  to  lie  down 

In  momentary  darkness,  and  awake 
In  a  bright  world  of  happiness,  unknown, 

And  unimagined  !    But  't  is  sad  to  take 
The  last  farewell  of  earthly  things,  and  know 
That  we  have  left  fond  hearts  to  lingering  years  of  woe. 

And  herein  lies  the  bitterness — but  when 

The  parting  pang  is  over,  need  we  fear 
To  tread  thy  narrow  pathway — and  cling  then 

To  life's  poor  relics  ? — It  is  true,  that  here 
We  have  bright  moments,  scenes  and  hours  of  joy  ; 
Yet  seldom  is  our  bliss  unmix'd  with  some  alloy. 

It  should  be  so — there  is  enough  of  bliss, 
To  make  the  hours  of  life  glide  swiftly  on, 

Yet  sadness  dims  the  brightest  cup — and  this 
Recalls  the  heart  from  trusting  what  must  soon 

Forever  vanish  from  our  grasp,  when  we 

Are  call'd  from  things  of  time  to  dread  eternity. 


TO    MY    COUSIN. 

COME  out  with  me  into  the  moonlight,  coz  ! 
Fling  by  that  page  of  romance — the  hot  breath 
Of  the  dim  taper,  ill  befits  an  eve 
So  beautiful  as  this — I  know  there  is 
13* 


150  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

A  deep  bewildering  interest  in  that  tale ; 

For  the  low  drooping  head,  the  parted  lip, 

The  feverish  glow  that  brightens  cheek  and  eye, 

And  the  light  finger  press'd  upon  the  page, 

As  if  that  volume  were  the  magic  link 

That  bound  thee  to  illusion — all  proclaim 

The  spell  that  hath  enchain'd  thee.     Yet  come  out, 

And  I  will  show  thee  full  as  bright  a  page, 

And  one  where  thou  may'st  read  as  wild  a  tale 

Of  love  and  chivalry,  as  that  from  which 

My  voice  hath  won  thee. — Is  it  not,  sweet  coz, 

A  most  delicious  night  ?  and  how  could  I 

Gaze  upward  on  that  moon,  and  thou  not  here — 

Our  arms  entwining  thus — and  the  light  touch 

Of  those  soft  fingers  resting  upon  mine, 

That  I  may  feel  their  gentle  pressure  tell 

Thy  voiceless  feelings — when  I  turn  to  say 

"  How  very  beautiful  !" — It  is  a  night 

For  Poetry — and  the  low  breeze  comes  by 

As  'twere  a  holy  whisper,  sent  to  quell 

The  spirit's  fever. — We  will  fling  aside 

Like  a  dull  robe  the  thought  of  present  things, 

And  wrap  ourselves  in  dreams. 

And  yet  't  is  not 

A  scene  like  that  we  gazed  on  when  yon  moon 
Last  moved,  so  empress-like,  across  the  sky — 
Nay,  thou  rememberest — I  know  it  well 
By  the  curl'd  lip  turn'd  towards  me  with  a  smile 
Of  recollected  pleasure  :  yet  again 
Look  towards  yon  concave  :  other  eyes  than  ours 
Are  gazing  on  that  orb,  and  kindly  lips 
Perchance  are  naming  us. 

Did  we  not  say 

Yon  planet  should  be  written,  like  a  book, 
With  cherish'd  memories  ? — and  when  the  hour 
Of  her  arising  came,  that  we  would  think 
On  those  from  whom  we  parted  1 — Look,  Annette ! 
Couldst  thou  not  fancy  that  a  friendly  eye 
Was  smiling  on  thee  from  the  distant  sphere  ? 
Nay,  laugh  not,  cousin, — 'twas  a  silly  thought! — 
But  who  would  fetter  fancy's  wildest  wing 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  151 

Upon  a  night  like  this  ?    The  very  light 

That  falls  around  us  hath  a  dreamy  spell, 

And  gives  the  scene  a  dim  unreal  shade, 

Like  a  forgotten  thought  come  back  again. 

It  is  most  beautiful !  yet  on  the  heart 

The  sense  of  pleasure  presses,  with  a  weight 

That  half  hath  started  tears — 't  is  strange  that  even 

Our  happiness  should  be  so  link'd  with  pain  ! 

And  beauty — perfect  beauty — only  wake 

The  knowledge  that  our  spirits  are  too  weak, 

To  feel  it  in  its  full  deep  blessedness ! 

Didst  never  wish  to  be  an  angel,  coz? 
That  thou  might  understand  the  pencilling 
Writ  on  the  sunset  sky — and  send  abroad 
A  soul  unfetter'd  on  a  night  like  this ! 


o 


Well,  let  us  wander  on — did  I  not  say 

I  knew  a  history  of  the  olden  time, 

That  I  would  tell  to  thee  1 — we  should  have  been 

Beneath  our  grape-vine  bower — thou  know'st  it,  love, 

And  I  thine  own  true  knight  to  sing  thee, 

While  thou  didst  touch  the  lute — 

But 't  is  not  so — 

And  while  I  tell  the  tale  of  which  I  spake, 
If  I  can  win  from  thee  one  gentle  sigh, 
I  will  not  ask  for  music  ! — 

'T  was  a  night 

Moon-lit,  and  calm,  and  beautiful, — like  this  ; 
Music  was  swelling  out,  upon  the  breeze, 
From  a  gay  festive  hall — and  starry  lamps 
Flung  out  their  perfumed  splendour  upon  brows 
Of  alabaster  whiteness,  and  dark  hair 
Enwreathed  with  dazzling  gerns  :  light  forms  went  by 
Graceful  and  fairy-like,  amid  the  dance, 
Beside  a  nation's  chivalry — and  songs 
Melted  away  in  liquid  melody 
From  rosy  lips,  and  the  gay  laugh  broke  forth ; 
Or,  when  the  ancient  minstrel  breathed  some  tale 
Of  love  and  sadness,  gentle  tears  fell  forth 
From  eyes  that  shone  more  lovely  through  their  mist 


152  POETICAL   WORKS    OP 

But  there  was  one,  had  stolen  from  that  scene 
Of  smiles  and  joyousness,  to  where  the  moon 
Look'd  downward,  silently,  through  jasmine  leaves, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  kiss'd  the  drooping  bells 
Of  the  sweet  clematis. 

And  there  she  stood — 

Her  head  bent  slightly  back,  and  the  long  fringe 
Of  her  dark  melancholy  eye  raised  up 
And  laid  against  her  brow,  as  if  her  soul 
Were  lifted  in  that  long  deep  glance  to  Heaven  ! 
Her  cheek  was  pale — so  pale,  that  its  faint  tinge 
Of  lingering  carmine  scarce  sufficed  to  tell 
That  the  slight  form,  round  which  the  white  robes  fell 
So  gracefully,  was  not  in  very  deed 
A  sculptor's  form  of  beauty — her  dark  hair 
Was  carelessly  thrown  backward,  and  her  hand 
Twisted  among  its  tresses,  look'd  as  't  were 
A  wandering  moon-beam — 't  was  so  delicate ! 
A  deeper  sadness  gather'd  on  the  brow, 
The  queenly  brow,  of  that  young  worshipper, 
Until  it  droop'd  upon  her  breast,  and  tears 
Came  crowding  to  her  eyelids.     Could  it  be 
That  grief  had  paled  a  cheek  so  beautiful  ? 
That  gush  of  tears  went  by — and  she  raised  up 
Her  forehead  to  the  breeze,  and  touch'd  the  lute.. 
That  lay  beside  her,  to  a  mournful  strain, 
The  while  she  sung  to  it : — 

"  This  faded  cheek,  this  faded  cheek, 

Pale  lip  and  alter'd  brow, 
Are  all  the  outward  signs  that  speak 

The  love  I  bear  thee  now. 
1  name  thee  not  amid  the  halls, 

Where  mirthful  glances  shine  ; 
But  not  one  tear  in  secret  falls, 

That  is  not  truly  thine. 

"  They  told  me,  that  the  vows  we  spake 

Were  soon  forgot  by  thee  ; 
But  though  my  heart,  perchance,  may  break, 

'T  will  ne'er  be  false  to  thee. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  153 

Nor  would'st  thou,  dearest,  all  so  soon 

That  one  deep  vow  forget, 
The  first,  the  last,  the  only  one, 

That  told  our  hearts  had  met. 

"  They  told  me  thou  wast  false,  that  pride 

Might  dry  my  burning  tears, 
When  I  should  learn  that  thou  hadst  died 

Amid  thine  early  years. 
They  did  not  know  how  deeply  dear 

Was  every  thought  of  thee, 
More  fondly,  truly,  cherish'd  here, 

Than  living  love  could  be." 

The  strain  was  hush'd — A  rustle  midst  the  leaves 
Hath  caught  the  maiden's  ear,  and  a  low  voice 
Whisper'd  the  name  of  "  Eva !"    Could  it  be 
That  the  dark  grave  had  given  up  its  dead  ? 
Or  was  that  breath  a  summons  from  the  land 
Of  parted  spirits  ?    But  a  moment  more, 
And  her  own  knight  was  kneeling  at  her  feet — 
Her  head  fell  on  his  bosom — hours  past  on, 
And  when  the  gray  dawn  made  a  pause  amid 
The  mirth  of  their  gay  revelling,  they  came 
To  seek  that  absent  one, — and  both  were  there, 
Silent  and  motionless  as  they  had  sunk, 
When  the  first  shock  was  over — one  in  death, 
And  one  in  cold  despair  ! 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 

TO    A.    6.    C. 

FORGET  me  not !  though  fate  from  thine, 

My  path  of  life  may  sever, 
Still  think  of  days  of  "  auld  lang  syne," 

And  moments  fled  forever. 

When  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away, 
And  other  ties  have  bound  us, 

Oh  !  then  let  memory  sometimes  stray, 
To  those  that  now  surround  us. 


154  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

Should  pomp  and  pride  be  round  thee  then- 
When  day's  bright  beam  is  o'er  thee, 

And  other  forms  shall  meet  thy  ken — 
Mine  may  not  stand  before  thee. 

But  when  the  orb  of  day  hath  set, 

Beneath  the  burning  ocean, 
And  holy  thoughts  around  thee  met, 

Have  still'd  the  heart's  commotion — 

Oh !  then  may  memory's  hallow'd  rays 

Around  my  image  hover, 
And  in  the  thoughts  of  other  days, 

These  hours  be  then  glanced  over. 

Forget  me  not !  though  fate  from  thine, 

My  path  of  life  may  sever, 
But  sometimes  think  of  "  auld  lang  syne," 

And  moments  fled  forever. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PAINTING. 

ADDRESSED  TO  D . —    M- — 

THE  Genius  of  Painting  one  summer  eve  stray'd, 
In  a  moment  of  leisure,  to  Flora's  bright  bower, 

Where,  scatter'd  around,  by  the  hand  of  the  maid, 
In  the  richest  profusion,  bloom'd  many  a  flower. 

"  Oh,  see,"  Flora  cried,  as  the  Genius  drew  nigh, 
"  What  an  Eden  of  beauty  is  blossoming  here  ! 

But  yet" — and  a  tear-drop  stood  bright  in  her  eye, — 
"  How  soon  will  its  loveliness  all  disappear ! 

"  Oh  Genius  !  bid  them  still  live  in  your  art, 

And  my  gratitude  well  shall  your  kindness  repay ; 

To  some  favour'd  mortal  your  spirit  impart, 

And  teach  him  to  rescue  my  flowers  from  decay." 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  155 

iBehold  I  have  rear'd,  in  my  favourite  bower, 
A  shrine,  and  an  altar,  dear  Painting,  for  you ; 

And  there  will  I  offer  each  loveliest  flower, 

As  often  as  morning  their  sweets  shall  renew." 

"  Many  thanks,  dearest  Flora !"  the  Genius  cried, 
"  Though  many  an  altar  and  temple  is  mine, 

That  with  richer  and  costlier  gifts  are  supplied, 
Yet  none  of  them  all  shall  be  dearer  than  thine. 

"  I  will  gift  with  my  spirit  whoever  you  will, 
Yet  choose  not,  dear  Flora,  the  renegade  man ; 

For  the  ingrate  from  you  will  be  wandering  still, 
O'er  fields  more  extended  and  varied  to  scan." 

At  this  instant,  a  maiden  drew  near  to  the  bower, 
And  Flora's  own  fondness  beam'd  soft  from  her  eye, 

As  with  rapture  she  hung  o'er  each  beautiful  flower, 
Or  heaved  o'er  the  dying  a  tremulous  sigh. 

Flora  turn'd  on  the  Genius  a  smile  of  delight — 

"  There,  Painting,"  she  cried,  "  is  my  favourite  maid  I 

Infuse  in  her  bosom  your  genius  bright, 

And  soon  shall  your  altar  be  richly  array'd." 

"  On  that  maid,  then,"  said  he,  "  shall  my  spirit  descend, 

A  bright,  and  unfading,  and  beautiful  gem  ; 
The  young  favourite  of  Flora  my  shrine  shall  attend, 

And  the  priestess  of  painting  shall  still  be  D.  M." 


A   VISION. 

NIGHT  o'er  the  earth  her  dusky  robe  had  spread, 
With  gloom  unwonted,  moon  and  stars  conceal'd 
By  dense  and  murky  clouds,  denied  their  light. 
I  musing  lay  reclined,  involved  in  thought, 
And  pondering  o'er  the  various  changing  scenes 
This  land  had  witness'd,  until  slumbers  soft 
Succeeded  to  my  reverie,  yet  stole 


156  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

So  lightly  over  me,  that  I  was  still 

Unconscious  that  I  slept ;  and  still  my  thoughts 

Pursued  the  path,  and  wander'd  o'er  the  scenes 

Where  they  had  waking  roved.     What !  I  exclaim'd, 

Would  be  the  feelings,  or  the  words  of  Penn, 

Did  he  now  view  the  fair  wide  commonwealth, 

Whose  infancy  was  foster'd  by  his  care? 

I  scarce  had  spoken,  when  an  airy  form 

Before  me  stood.     Her  dark  and  piercing  eye 

Was  lighted  by  a  smile,  that  o'er  her  face, 

In  female  beauty  rich,  benignant  play'd. 

Her  tresses  unadorn'd,  save  with  a  wreath 

Of  dewy  wild-flowers,  o'er  her  shoulders  flung, 

In  glossy  ringlets  waved,  or  shaded  light, 

Her  polish'd  brow.     Yet  seem'd  she  not  of  gross 

Corporeal  mould  ;  but  rather  like  the  air, 

Condensed  and  visible.     I  knew  the  form — 

'T  was  one  whose  aid  I  often  had  invoked, 

What  time  I  tuned  or  swept  mine  airy  lyre, 

Imagination  !  with  a  kindly  smile, 

She  lightly  touch'd,  and  bade  me  follow  her. 

My  soul,  unfetter'd,  instant  soar'd  aloft, 

Far,  far  above  the  confines  of  the  earth, 

Then  paused ;  and  while  we  hover'd,  light  in  air, 

My  fair  conductress  bade  me  look  around. 

I  look'd !  beneath  us  Pennsylvania  lay, 

Her  ripen'd  harvests  waving  in  the  breeze, 

And  wet  with  dew  of  morning ;  for  not  yet 

The  sun  had  risen  from  his  wavy  bed, 

But  redden'd  by  his  beams,  the  fleecy  clouds, 

Bright  glowing,  spoke  his  near  approach.     Toward  one 

That  rested  nearest  earth,  with  purple  tinged, 

My  guide  conducted  me.     As  near  we  drew, 

With  wonder  I  beheld,  within  its  breast, 

A  form  reposed  as  in  an  airy  car, 

Which  bore  (though  half  conceal'd  and  indistinct) 

The  human  likeness.     O'er  his  face  beam'd  love, 

Compassion  mild,  benevolence  divine 

And  universal.     Sin  no  place  had  there, 

Nor  earthly  passions — but  bright  peace  serene, 

Pure  piety,  and  happiness  unmix'd. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  157 

"  Behold  !"  exclaim'd  my  guide,  "  with  awe  behoM 

The  sainted  spirit  of  the  righteous  Penn !" 

Quick  throbb'd  my  bosom  at  the  name  revered, 

With  mix'd  emotions.     Mute  with  awe  I  gazed 

Upon  the  sacred  form.     Silent  awhile, 

He  view'd  the  beauteous  scene,  till  the  fair  town 

Whose  name  denotes  the  love  he  bore  to  man, 

Right  'neath  us  lay.     As  with  a  father's  love 

He  fondly  gazed,  then  utterance  gave  to  thought. 

"  Fair  happy  State !  by  Heaven's  mercy  risen 

From  a  waste  wilderness,  a  savage  wild, 

Uncultured,  now  transform'd  to  harvest  plains, 

With  villages  and  cities  studded  thick. — 

How  changed  art  thou  from  what  thou  wert  when  first 

I  saw  thee !  now  thou  bear'st  no  middle  rank 

Among  thy  sisters — to  thy  farthest  verge 

The  flowing  tide  of  population  rolls. 

Then,  Philadelphia  !  where  thou  spreadest  now 

Thy  goodly  domes,  the  Indian  drove  the  chase. 

Ye  white  men,  ye  have  reft  by  slow  degrees 

Your  brethren  of  their  land.     O  give  them  then, 

What  for  the  loss  alone  can  compensate, 

Your  virtuous  knowledge,  justice,  and  your  love. 

Ye  have  escaped  the  ignominous  stain, 

Shameful  and  foul,  that  brands  with  deep  disgrace 

Your  brethren  of  the  south,  the  heavy  curse 

Of  slavery.     Then  free  the  Indian  from  the  bonds  of  vice   ' 

He  ceased.     And  now  the  streets  below  were  throng'd 

With  early  passengers  :  among  them  came, 

By  the  rude  dress  and  tawny  skin  reveal'd, 

Some  stranger  Indians.     In  wonder  wrapp'd, 

They  view'd  the  various  scenes,  till  they  were  shown 

(Where  stands  the  wretched  maniacs'  abode) 

The  form  of  Miquen.*     Instant  at  its  base 

With  mingled  reverence  and  love  they  knelt, 

And  while  a  tear  unwonted  devv'd  their  eyes, 

Pray'd  the  great  spirit,  to  protect,  and  bless 

The  friends  of  Miquen.     In  the  eye  of  Penn 

An  answering  tear-drop  glow'd,  an  answering  prayer 

*  The  Indian  name  of  Penn. 
14 


158  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

He  bredthed  for  them.     "  Yes,  grateful  men,"  he  said, 
"  Time  has  not  from  your  memory  yet  erased 
The  elm-tree  treaty."     Silence  reign'd  once  more — 
And  like  the  morning  mist  the  scene  dissolved, 
And  disappeared.     I  waked ! — 't  was  darkness  all ; — 
The  rain  beat  heavily,  rough  blew  the  blast, 
And  all  was  silence,  solitude,  and  night ! 


A    NEW-YEAR'S    GREETING, 

TO  A  CIRCLE  OP  FRIENDS. 

A  KINDLY  greeting  to  you  all — 

To  all  an  opening  year  of  gladness ; 

May  never  sorrow  round  you  fall 

More  dark  than  evening's  twilight  sadness 

The  wintry  blast  may  whistle  shrill, 

And  clouds  may  dim  the  face  of  heaven ; 

But  Friendship's  wreath  shall  blossom  still, 
On  this  our  gladsome  New- Year's  even. 

While  lips  and  hearts  are  smiling  thus, 
And  hands  are  fondly  clasp'd  together, 

Oh  what  are  cloudy  skies  to  us, 

Or  fortune's  bright  or  sunny  weather  ? 

We  may  not  meet,  to  hail  again 

Another  year  with  hearts  of  lightness ; 

Some  beating  pulse  may  rest  ere  then, 
Some  eye  have  lost  its  wonted  brightness 

We  may  have  met,  perchance — alas  ! 

To  mingle  hearts  and  then  be  parted ; 
Or  some  dark  blight  may  o'er  us  pass, 

And  leave  us  lone  and  broken-hearted. 

But  let  the  future  smile,  or  frown, 
The  wing  of  hope  is  waving  o'er  us ; 

One  gem  of  bliss  is  still  our  own, 
And  one  bright  rose  of  joy  before  us. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  159 

Then  may  the  rose  be  cherish'd  well —  • 

The  sparkling  gem  be  sullied  never — 
And  parted  Friendship's  only  knell, 

Be  when  our  hearts  are  still'd  forever. 


TO  A  PARTICULAR  FRIEND. 


"  We  took  sweet  counsel  together,  we  went  to  the  house  of  the  Lord 
in  company." PSALMS. 


WE  'VE  sat  beside  the  forest  stream, 

And  watch'd  the  bright  wave  rippling  by, 

Now  flashing  back  the  summer  beam, 
Then  dark'ning  like  a  half-shut  eye, 

As  whispering  to  the  joyous  breeze, 

Down  closer  bent  the  shadowing  trees. 

Thy  hand  was  clasp'd  in  mine,  my  friend, 
And  heart  to  heart  was  answering  then ; 

Although,  perchance,  our  tones  might  send 
No  echo  down  the  rocky  glen — 

Or  if  we  spoke,  't  was  language  fraught 

With  all  the  others'  voiceless  thought. 

Oh !  it  was  sweet  to  linger  there, 

Beneath  a  sky  so  purely  blue, 
And  breathe  the  gather'd  sweets,  the  air 

Had  stolen  from  flowers  it  wander'd  through — 
How  could  there  come  a  thought  of  ill 
Amidst  a  scene  so  calm  and  still ! 

But  yet,  a  holier  chord  than  this, 

Around  our  breasts  its  power  hath  twined ; 
And  though,  perchance,  those  hours  of  bliss 

May  fade,  like  moonlight,  from  the  mind, 
Can  love  aside  be  careless  cast, 
O'er  which  the  breath  of  prayer  hath  past  ? 

Oh,  no !  and  though  not  oft  we  meet, 
Within  the  house  of  worship  now, — 


160  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

The  hours  may  come,  less  calm  and  sweet 

Than  those  beneath  the  greenwood  bough ; 
Those  hearts  may  ne'er  be  wholly  riven, 
Which  side  by  side  have  bow'd  to  Heaven. 


WHERE    ARE    THEY? 


"  I  came  to  the  halls  of  my  fathers,  and  asked,  "  Where  are  they  ?" 
and  the  echoes  answered  "  where." 


WHERE  are  they  ?  where !  they  all  are  gone, 
Whose  smiles  were  wont  to  answer  mine, 

When  in  the  hours  that  long  have  flown, 
These  halls  were  fond  affection's  shrine  ? 

Gray  moss  is  on  the  smooth  flag-stone, 
That  once  was  worn  with  bounding  feet, 

When  eyes,  now  dim,  all  brightly  shone, 
And  minstrel's  song  resounded  sweet. 

The  harp  still  decks  the  mouldering  walls, 
With  all  its  tuneful  chords  unstrung, 

And  silent  are  the  echoing  halls, 

Where  oft  the  merry  laugh  has  rung. 

Where  now  are  alt  the  lips  and  eyes, 

Whose  smiles  once  cheer'd  my  native  bower  1 

And  where  are  those  whose  parting  sighs, 
I've  treasured  many  a  weary  hour  1 

There  many  a  cheek  was  wet  with  tears, 

And  choking  voices  sigh'd  adieu, 
But  now  no  friendly  form  appears, 

Of  all  the  wanderer's  childhood  knew. 

I  called,  Where  are  they?  but  in  vain — 
There  was  no  friend  to  greet  me  there — 

The  harp's  last  chord  then  burst  in  twain, 
And  echo  only  answer'd  "  Where  ?" 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  161 

[  The  piece  below,  was  written  upon  the  perusal  of  an  article  in  a  news- 
paper,  announcing  the  Decree  issued  by  the  Executive  of  the  Republic  of 
Mexico,  totally  abolishing  the  system  of  Slavery  within  its  limits,  on  the 
anniversary  of  National  Independence,  in  the  year  1829.  ] 


EMANCIPATION. 

GLADNESS  in  Mexico !  A  pealing  shout, 

From  franchisee!  men,  goes  proudly  o'er  her  hills ; 

And  the  rich  hymn  is  swelling  up  to  Heaven, 

Bearing  the  full  heart's  gratitude.      No  more 

The  wild  bird  springing  upward  from  its  nest, 

Or  the  free  waters  in  their  gushing  glee, 

Seem  taunting  man  that  they  are  masterless, 

While  his  proud  thoughts  and  swelling  pulse  are  crush'd 

Beneath  vile  bonds.     No  more  at  eventide, 

The  serf  stalks  gloomily  to  seek  a  home, 

He  scarce  can  call  his  own  ;  or  goes  at  dawn 

Unwillingly  to  toil : — the  heavy  spell, 

That  'numb'd  his  veins  with  leaden  sluggishness, 

Hath  lost  its  power ;  and  now,  his  glad  limbs  bound 

Across  the  glorious  earth,  as  though  they  were 

Nought  but  an  essence.     Hear  ye  not  the  voice 

Of  his  wild  carol  pour'd  upon  the  air, 

As  like  the  woodland  bird  "with  folded  wing 

He  drops  into  his  nest" — or  goes  at  morn, 

With  light  and  eager  spirit  .to  the  toil 

From  which  no  hand  withholds  the  just  reward  ! 

Oh,  it  is  sweet  to  wear  a  heart,  whose  throbs 

Are  stifled  by  no  fetters — and  an  eye 

That  quails  not  to  the  mightiest !  But  the  soul 

Of  him  whose  hand  hath  wrench'd  the  bonds  of  thrall 

From  the  sad  bosoms  that  beneath  them  pined, 

Hath  yet  a  higher  joy  ! — and  there  is  one,* 

Whose  name  the  grateful  Mexican  shall  teach 

His  son  to  lisp,  ere  yet  his  infant  lip 

Hath  learn'd  to  murmur,  father. 

But  our  land ! —    , 
The  curse  is  on  it  still ! — the  slave-fiend  stalks 

*  Guerrero. 
14* 


162  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

Amidst  our  pleasant  valleys  and  green  hills ; 
*  A  tyrant  to  the  tyrants  he  has  made  ; 
Muttering  fierce  threats,  and  crowding  on  their  hearts 
Visions  and  shapes  of  terror,  like  the  wild 
And  elfish  faces  that  look  forth  at  eve, 
On  wilder'd  travellers,  'midst  the  cheating  shades, 
And  gibe  and  chatter  at  the  fears  they  raise. 
So  men  go  crouching  to  the  demon  power, 
Scarce  daring  e'en  to  syllable  his  name, 
Lest  they  should  waken  up  his  smother'd  rage ; 
And  offering  human  victims  at  his  shrjne, 
Instead  of  nobly  standing  forth,  like  men, 
To  drive  him  yelling  from  the  glorious  earth, 
That  he  pollutes  and  blackens  with  his  tread. 

Whom  call  ye  slaves  ?  Are  not  the  cravens  such, 
Who  dare  not  act  with  justice  ? — Men  who  prate 
In  sweet  smooth  sentences,  of  Christian  love, 
And  with  much  sympathy,  lament  the  fate 
Of  those  from  whose  swoll'n  limbs  they  will  not  strike 
One  single  link,  in  all  their  weight  of  chains  ? 
Strange  !  that  the  high  capacities  of  mind, 
Should  be  so  blinded  by  the  gleam  of  gold — 
Till  even  the  soul  itself  is  valued  less, 
Than  "  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus." 


THE  CHEROKEE. 

GAZE  on  this  landscape  !  once  in  fleet  career, 
The  desert  chieftain  trod  exulting  here ! 
Cleft  with  light  bark  the  still  and  shaded  floods, 
Pierced  the  recesses  of  the  old  gray  woods ; 
Pour'd  'midst  their  hidden  dells  his  wild  halloo, 
And  the  light  shaft  with  aim  unerring  threw. 

Proud  was  his  spirit,  fierce,  untamed  and  free, 
Scorning  to  crouch  to  pain,  from  death  to  flee, 
With  feelings  suited  to  his  savage  state, 
Faithful  alike  to  friendship  or  to  hate, 
Seeking  no  meed  beyond  a  warrior's  fame, 
And  fearing  nought  except  a  coward's  shame. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  163 

These  wilds  were  his ; — amidst  his  chosen  dell, 
Where  clustering  wild-flowers  fringed  the  gushing  well, 
His  hut  was  rear'd ;  and  there  at  closing  day, 
He  heard  his  children's  laughter-shout  of  play, 
While,  weary  with  the  chase,  his  limbs  were  laid 
In  listless  rest  beneath  the  oak-tree's  shade. 

Then  o'er  the  ocean-sea  the  white  man  came, 

Held  to  his  lips  the  cup  of  liquid  flame, 

With  smooth,  false  words,  and  bold  encroaching  hand, 

AVrench'd  from  the  Cherokee  his  father's  land, 

Still  on  his  fast  receding  footsteps  prest, 

And  urged  him  onward  to  the  distant  west, 

Till  all  the  precincts  of  his  narrowed  ground, 

Was  closely  hemm'd  with  cultured  life  around, 

And  burning  cottages  and  mangled  slain, 

Had  mark'd  war's  footsteps  o'er  the  ravaged  plain. 

Wearied,  at  length,  the  pale-brow'd  stranger  swore, 

To  seek  the  Indian's  hunting  grounds  no  more ; 

Treaties  and  oaths  the  solemn  compact  seal'd, 

And  plenty  crown'd  once  more  the  blood-stain'd  field ; 

Then  o'er  the  red-man's  alter'd  nature  smiled 

A  kindlier  spirit,  and  a  soul  more  mild  ; 

Bright  knowledge  pour'd  its  sunlight  o'er  his  mind, 

His  feelings  soften'd,  and  his  heart  refined. 

No  longer  then,  when  pass'd  the  storm-flash  by, 
He  saw  the  lightning  of  Manitto's  eye, 
Or  listen'd  trembling,  while  his  anger  spoke, 
As  high  o'er  head  the  pealing  thunder  broke. 
He  learn'd  to  light  in  heaven  his  spirit's  flame, 
And  blend  a  Saviour's  with  Jehovah's  name. 
Then  tell  us,  ye,  who  have  the  power  to  save, 
Shall  all  his  hopes  be  crush'd  in  one  wide  grave  ? 
Shall  lawless  force,  with  rude,  remorseless  hand, 
Drive  out  the  Indian  from  his  father's  land, 
Burst  all  the  ties  that  bind  the  heart  to  home, 
And  thrust  him  forth  'mid  distant  wilds  to  roam? 
Oh  no  !  to  mercy's  pleading  voice  give  ear, 
The  wak'ning  wrath  of  outraged  justice  fear, 


164  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Stain  not  with  broken  faith  our  country's  name, 
Nor  weigh  her  tresses  to  the  dust  with  shame  ! 
Remember  yet  the  solemn  pledge  you  gave, 
And  lift  the  potent  arm  to  shield  and  save  ! 


GAYASHTJTA  TO  THE  SONS  OF  ONAS. 


The  following  lines  are  a  versification  of  a  speech  or  letter  delivered  by 
the  Cornplanter  to  the  "  Sons  of  Onas"  (William  Penn)  from  Gayashuta, 
a  chief  of  the  Seneca  Nation. 


MY  brothers  !  Sons  of  Onas  !  hear  my  voice ! 

And  Gayashuta's  spirit  shall  rejoice ; 

For  age  has  settled  on  his  drooping  head ; 

His  hopes  have  wither'd,  and  his  joys  have  fled. 

When  youth  and  strength  were  seated  on  his  brow, 

He  felt  not  hunger,  pain,  and  want,  as  now ; 

For  then  the  wild  deer  bounded  o'er  the  plain, 

And  never  was  his  arrow  sped  in  vain. 

Our  land  embraced  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 

The  chase — our  pleasure — furnish'd  us  with  food. 

The  red  man's  tribes  the  mighty  Spirit  bless'd, 

And  every  stranger  was  his  welcome  guest. 

With  pleasure,  when  they  sought  our  lonely  haunts, 

We  gave  them  shelter,  and  relieved  their  wants. 

My  brothers !  when  your  fathers  sought  our  shores, 

The  wide  extended  fertile  plains  were  ours. 

They  loved  the  land  their  mighty  ships  had  found, 

And  Onas  call'd  his  red-skinn'd  brethren  round — 

They  ask'd  us,  and  we  gave  them  of  our  land, 

Whereon  to  plant,  and  where  their  wigwams  stand: 

And  Gayashuta's  voice  was  foremost  heard, 

To  urge  and  aid  the  suit  his  friend  preferr'd. 

My  brothers  !  Gayashuta  had  not  thought, 

When  first  the* Groves  of  Pines*  your  fathers  sought, 

Of  age  or  weakness — strength  was  in  his  frame, 

And  cowards  shrunk  beneath  his  eye  of  flame. 

*  The  place  where  Philadelphia  now  stands  was  called  by  the  Indians 
the  Grove  of  the  long  pine  trees. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  165 

Your  fathers  saw  him  then, — he  now  is  old, 

And  you  will  ne'er  his  alter'd  form  behold, 

His  wither'd,  bending  form,  that  scarce  appears 

The  ghost  of  what  it  was  in  former  years. 

He  wonders,  when  his  shadow  meets  his  eye, 

It  is  so  shrunk,  so  changed  from  days  gone  by ! 

No  longer  can  Lo  track  the  flying  game, 

Or  point  the  arrow  with  unerring  aim  ; 

He  has  no  children  to  supply  his  wants, 

The  whites  have  scared  the  wild  deer  from  his  haunts. 

In  hunting  all  the  day  the  youth  must  toil, 

And  scarce  the  chase  will  yield  sufficient  spoil 

To  satisfy  themselves — there  is  none  left 

For  those  who  are  of  friends  and  strength  bereft. 

For  Gayashuta  is  not  here  alone — 

A  remnant  yet  remains  of  days  long  gone. 

They  were  your  fathers'  friends,  they  now  are  weak, 

And  poor  and  feeble^shall  they  vainly  speak ! 

My  brothers  !  Sons  of  Onas  !  in  his  youth, 

Your  fathers  gave  this  belt,  the  badge  of  truth, 

To  Gayashuta,  this  he  sends  to  you, 

The  ancient  bond  of  friendship  to  renew. 

Look  on  this  belt !  and  should  it  warm  your  heart, 

Then  comfort  to  your  fathers'  friends  impart, 

My  brothers !  we  are  tnen,  and  only  say 

That  we  are  hungry,  naked,  old,  and  gray, 

We  have  no  other  friends  on  whom  to  call, 

Than  you,  the  Sons  of  Onas,  friends  to  all* 


THE    SLAVE, 

IT  was  a  glorious  sunset  hour  : — a  scent 
Of  rich  perfume,  from  many  a  twisted  wreath 
Of  summer  blossoms,  clustering  in  their  wild 
And  free  profusion,  'neath  a  southern  sky, 
Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  and  streams  went  by 
With  a  glad  tone,  and  the  hush'd  birds  came  forth 
From  the  thick  woods,  and  lifted  up  the  voice 
Of  their  hearts'  mirthful  music.     Painted  wings 


166  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Were  fluttering  on  the  breeze,  and  the  bees'  hum 
Made  a  glad  melody. — 

At  a  hill's  foot, 

Beside  a  gushing  stream,  and  'neath  a  clump 
Of  close  embowering  trees,  there  stood  a  cot, 
At  whose  low  door  a  mother  sung  to  rest, 
With  a  sad  lullaby,  her  infant  boy. 

I. 

These  southern  climes  are  bright,  are  bright, 

With  their  gorgeous  summer  flowers  ! 
But  I  would  my  head  might  rest  to-night 

In  my  own  loved  native  bowers  : 
They  say  this  land  is  proudly  blest 

All  other  lands  above, 
But  afar  from  here  is  the  spot,  that  best 

In  the  wide,  wide  world  I  love. 

II. 

It  may  want  the  perfumed  airs  of  this, 

It  may  want  the  glorious  clime — 
But  there  is  the  thought  of  all  the  bliss 

Of  my  happy  childhood's  time. 
Better  to  roam  'neath  burning  skies, 

Upon  wastes  of  desert  sand, 
Than  to  load  the  air  with  slavery's  sighs, 

And  to  wear  on  your  heart  its  brand. 

III. 

Rest,  love,  and  sleep — -for  thine  infant  years 

Are  a  dream  that  knows  no  sorrow  ; 
Too  soon  wilt  thou  waken  to  bitter  tears, 

When  manhood  shall  come  like  the  morrow. 
Rest,  love,  rest ! — for  thou  know'st  not  yet, 

What  a  fearful  doom  is  o'er  thee ! 
That  the  name  of  slave  on  thy  brow  is  set, 

And  a  life  of  woe  before  thee. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  167 

THE  OUTCAST. 


"  There  is  a  race  of  people  inhabiting  the  Vale  of  Lieze,  on  the  French 
side  of  the  Pyrenees,  who  are  supposed  to  be  descended  from  the  Saracens, 
and  are  entirely  excluded  from  communion  with  the  rest  of  mankind. — 
They  are  even  obliged  to  enter  the  churches  by  a  separate  door,  and  no 
one  will  make  use  of  the  holy  water  which  their  touch  has  polluted." 


THE  vineyards  of  France  'neath  their  fruitage  were  bending, 

And  spread  their  rich  clusters  of  blue  to  the  sun, 
And  high  o'er  the  steep  of  the  mountain  ascending, 
The  soft  voice  of  song,  with  wild  merriment  blending, 
Told  where  the  gay  harvester's  toil  was  begun. 

The  sun  its  last  glance  o'er  the  landscape  was  flinging, 

And  sounds  from  afar  came  distinctly  and  clear ; 
The  birds  from  each  covert  their  vespers  were  singing, 
And  far  in  the  vale  the  deep  convent-bell  ringing, 
Sent  up  its  sad  tones  to  the  wanderer's  ear. 

He  flung  himself  down  with  an  aspect  of  sadness, 

And  listlessly  gazed  on  the  landscape  below  ; 
His  spirit  by  scorn  had  been  goaded  to  madness, 
And  now  that  bright  scene,  and  those  murmurs  of  gladness, 
Seem'd  rising  before  him  to  mock  at  his  woe. 

"  Oh  why,"  he  exclaim'd,  as  the  bitter  tear  started, 

"  Oh  why  was  I  form'd  with  a  bosom  to  feel ! 
Since  thus  I  was  doom'd  from  mankind  to  be  parted, 
An  outcast  on  earth,  lone,  and  desolate-hearted, 
Too  vile  with  the  vilest  in  worship  to  kneel. 

"  And  thou — loved  and  lost  one — oh  why  didst  thou  nourish 

The  weed  that  was  trampled  by  all,  save  by  thee ; 
The  gleamings  of  light  in  my  young  spirit  cherish, 
And  waken  high  feelings  and  hopes  but  to  perish, 
And  leave  my  dark  fate  doubly  dreadful  to  me  ? 


168  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

"  In  the  hours  of  my  slumber  proud  visions  come  o'er  me, 
And  life  for  a  moment  seems  brightly  to  smile, 

The  pathway  of  glory  and  fame  is  before  me, 

The  noble  caress,  and  the  lovely  adore  me, 

And  every  sad  thought  from  my  bosom  beguile. 

"  But,  ah  !  from  those  dreams  soon  and  sadly  I  waken, 

To  find  all  around  me  thrice  gloomy  and  drear  ; 
To  know  that  thou,  too,  from  my  arms  hast  been  taken, 
Thou  blest  and  revered  one,  whose  friendship  unshaken* 
The  darkest,  the  saddest,  of  moments  would  cheer. 


"  Oh  death !  thou  stern  foe  to  the  lovely  and  blooming, 

Thou  terror  to  those  who  are  blessing  and  blest ! 
How  freely  this  bosom  would  welcome  thy  coming, 
How  gladly,  thy  garment  of  darkness  assuming, 
Sink  down  into  slumber  and  peace  on  thy  breast !" 


STANZAS. 

JT  is  sweet  to  think  of  days  gone  by, 
When  life  and  all  its  charms  were  new, 

And  seem'd  as  bright  to  childhood's  eye, 
As  morning's  liquid  gems  of  dew. 


To  think  of  joys  that  long  have  fled, 
Of  youthful  hopes  indulged  in  vain, 

Of  feelings  waken'd  from  the  dead, 
And  sorrows  that  have  ceased  to  pain. 


To  let  the  thoughts  excursive  rove, 
In  many  a  wild  prophetic  dream, 

To  pour  the  prayer  for  those  we  love 
And  feel  that  we  are  dear  to  them— 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  169 

To  think  of  friends  we  fondly  loved, 

Who  calmly  now  in  darkness  sleep, 
By  all  our  joys  and  griefs  unmoved — 

To  think  with  soften'd  breast  and  weep ! 

Oh !  well  such  moments  can  repay, 

For  lingering  hours  of  darker  thought, 
When  hope  has  bent  'neath  sorrow's  sway, 

And  feeling  is  with  anguish  fraught. 


THE  CHINESE  SON. 


The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  reading  a  narrative  of  a  Chinese 
youth,  whose  mother  felt  great  alarm  during  the  prevalence  of  a  thunder- 
storm, and  whose  filial  affection  always  prompted  him  to  be  present  with 
his  mother  on  such  occasions,  and  even  after  her  death  to  visit  and  remain 
at  her  grave,  during  their  continuance. 


I  COME  to  thee,  my  mother  !  the  black  sky 

Is  swollen  with  its  thunder,  and  the  air 
Seems  palpable  with  darkness,  save  when  high, 

The  lurid  lightning  streams  a  ruddy  glare 

Across  the  heavens,  rousing  from  their  lair 
The  deep-voiced  thunders  !  how  the  mounting  storm 

Strides  o'er  the  firmament !  yet  I  can  dare 
Its  fiercest  terrors,  mother,  that  my  arm 
May  wind  its  shield  of  love  around  thy  sleeping  form. 

What  uproar !  raging  winds,  and  smiting  hail, 

The  lightning's  blaze,  and  deaf'ning  thunder's  crash, 

Let  loose  at  once  for  havoc !     I  should  quail 
Before  the  terrors  of  the  forked  flash, 
Did  not  the  thought  of  thee  triumphant  dash 

All  selfish  fears  aside,  and  bid  me  fly 

To  kneel  beside  thy  grave  ;  the  rain-drops  plash 

Heavily  round  thee  from  the  rifted  sky ; 

Yet  I  am  here,  fear  not— beside  thy  couch  I  lie. 

15 


170  POETICAL   WORKS    OP 

Thou  canst  not  hear  me — the  storm  brings  not  now, 

One  terror  to  thy  bosom — yet  't  is  sweet 
To  call  to  mind  the  smile,  wherewith  thy  brow 

Was  wont  in  by-gone  days  my  step  to  greet, 

When  o'er  the  earth  the  summer  tempest  beat, 
And  the  loosed  thunder  shook  the  heavens — but  when 

Was  there  a  look  of  mine  that  did  not  meet 
A  smile  of  love  from  thee  ?  the  world  of  men 
A  friend,  like  thou  hast  been,  will  never  yield  again. 

Oh !  mother,  mother,  how  could  love  like  thine 
Pass  from  the  earth  away  !  on  other  eyes, 

The  glances  of  maternal  love  will  shine, 
And  still  on  other  hearts  the  blessing  lies, 
That  made  mine  blissful ;  yet  far  less  they  prize 

That  boon  of  happiness — and  in  their  glee, 
Around  their  spirits  gather  many  ties 

Of  joy  and  tenderness — but  all  to  me 

That  made  the  earth  seem  bright,  is  sepulchred  with  thee. 

They  sometimes  strive  to  lead  me  to  the  halls, 

Where  wine  and  mirth  the  fleeting  moments  wing, 

But  on  my  clouded  spirit  sadness  falls, 

More  darkly  then,  than  when  the  cave-glooms  fling 
Their  shadows  round  me,  and  the  night-winds  sing 

Through  the  torn  rocks  their  melancholy  dirge, 
Or  when  as  now  the  echoing  thunder  rings 

O'er  the  wide  heavens,  and  the  n*ad  gales  urge 

Unto  an  answering  cry,  the  overmastering  surge. 


The  storms  of  nature  pass,  and  soon  no  trace 
Is  left  to  mark  their  ravage — but  long  years 

Pass  lingeringly  onward,  nor  efface 

The  deep-cut  channel  of  our  burning  tears, 
Or  aching  scars,  that  wasting  sorrow  sears 

Upon  the  breast :  lo !  even  now,  a  gleam 

Of  moonlight  through  the  broken  clouds  appears 

To  bless  the  earth  again.     I  fain  would  dream, 

It  was  a  smile  of  thine,  to  bless  me  with  its  beam. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  171 


TO  A  CROCUS. 

AN'  so  ye  've  oped  your  leaves  at  last— 
I  've  often  pitied  ye,  when  fast 
The  drivin'  snaw  has  o'er  ye  past, 

Puir  bonnie  thing, 
Ye  dared  too  soon  the  moody  blast, 

This  damp  cauld  spring. 


Ye've  lifted  up  your  gou'den  head, 
Too  soon  from  off  its  wintry  bed, 
When  late  the  faithless  sunshine  shed, 

A  saft  warm  gleam, 

Then  left  ye,  ere  your  leaves  could  spread, 
Beneath  its  beam. 


Sic'  is  the  hapless  doom  of  those 

Round  whom  her  chain  stern  slavery  throws, 

Wha,  born  to  naught  but  wrongs  and  woes, 

An'  mony  a  tear, 
Find  storms  and  gloom  around  them  close, 

In  life's  young  year. 


But  o'er  ye  now  the  brightening  sky 

Is  bending  wi'  a  milder  eye, 

A  safter  breeze  your  buds  will  dry, 

An'  fan  your  bloom ; 
O'er  them,  oppression's  clouds  still  lie 

In  murky  gloom. 


Yet  e'en  for  them,  a  feeble  light 
Seems  breaking  o'er  the  horizon's  night, 
Distant,  and  faint,  yet  palely  bright, 

Wi'  hope's  blest  beam, 
Telling  that  soon  across  their  sight 

'T  will  broadly  gleam. 


172  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

TRUE  FRIENDSHIP. 

THEY  say  this  world  is  fraught  with  guile 
They  say  that  lips  may  wear  a  smile, 
And  yet  the  heart  be  cold  the  while, 
As  Zembla's  sparkling  icicle. 

They  say  that  those  beloved  for  years, 
Will  fly  when  adverse  fate  appears, 
And  meet  us  'midst  our  lonely  tears, 
With  eye  averted  scornfully. 

Believe  it  not — oh  no  !  oh  no  ! 
True  hearts  there  are,  that  love  not  so, 
But  closer  twine  in  grief  and  woe, 
And  love  ev'n  more  in  misery  ! 

There  may  be  some,  perchance,  whose  eye 
Will  only  smile  when  hope  is  high, 
And  from  the  couch  of  sorrow  fly, 
To  meet  in  sounds  of  revelry. 

Yet  think  not  all  are  false  and  fair ! 
Though  hearts  of  truth,  alas  !  be  rare, 
Some,  some,  at  least,  will  surely  bear 
The  test  of  dark  adversity. 


A  SKETCH. 

[Extracted /rom  a  manuscript  poem.] 

YOUNG  Harwald's  burning  coal-black  eye, 
And  clustering  locks  of  raven  dye — 
That  o'er  his  lofty  forehead  hung, 
In  thick  neglected  masses  flung, — 
Contrasted  strangely  with  the  cheek 

So  wan,  so  sunken,  and  so  pale, — 
Save  when  the  hectic's  transient  streak 

Pass'd  over  it — and  told  a  tale 
Of  silent  suffering  and  decay, 
That  wore  the  springs  of  life  away. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET   CHANDLER.  178 

"  Scarce  five  and  twenty  years,"  he  said, 

"  The  light  of  heaven  has  round  me  shed ; 

But  these  few  years  of  woe  and  crime, 

Have  done  the  lingering  work  of  time. 

I  was  a  spoil'd  and  wayward  boy, 

In  infancy  my  father's  toy ; 

Each  wild  caprice,  each  childish  whim, 

Was  humour'd  and  indulged  by  him ;        r •'  %  „ 

Until  my  passions,  unrestrain'd, 

A  fearful  empire  o'er  me  gain'd  ; 

And  in  this  form,  so  changed,  decay'd, 

Behold  the  wreck  that  they  have  made. 

"  Thou  knowest  now  what  I  have  been, 
And  what  I  am : — but  no,  unseen, 
Unknown,  forever,  must  remain 
The  dreary  loneliness, — the  pain 
Of  blighted  hopes,  remorse's  sting, 
And  all  the  vulture  forms  that  cling 
Around  this  heart,  where  they  were  nursed, 
Till  they  have  render'd  it  accursed ! 

"  Nay,  nay !  speak  not  to  me  of  peace, 
Of  pardoning  love,  and  heavenly  grace ; 
My  callous  heart  is  scorch'd  and  sear, 
It  has  naught  now  to  hope  or  fear. 
It  may  be,  in  my  days  of  youth, 
Before  my  heart  was  warp'd  from  truth, 
Thy  words  had  not  been  vain — but  now 
The  mark  of  Cain  is  on  my  brow ! 
Ay !  spurn  me  from  thee,  if  thou  wilt — 
'Tis  just — this  hand  is  red  with  guilt; 
And  't  is  not  meet  that  it  should  clasp, 
With  one  so  pure,  in  friendly  grasp. 

"  I  could  not  weep — no,  not  one  tear, 

Though  it  might  change  my  final  sentence : 
I  feel  it — it  is  written  here — 
And  my  scorch'd  heart  is  waste  and  drear 
With  vain  remorse,  but  no  repentance. 
15* 


174  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

It  is  too  late ! — the  time  of  grace, 

So  vainly  offer'd,  now  is  spent ; 
There  is  no  longer  left  a  place, 

Where  I  might  turn  me,  and  repent. 
There  is  a  GOD  !  I  doubt  it  not — 

Though  I  have  scorn'd  his  holy  name — 
'T  is  written  where  no  hand  can  blot 

Those  characters  of  living  flame. 
No  ! — I  have  scofF'd  at  things  above, 
Have  spurn'd  a  Saviour's  proffer'd  love, 
Have  made  a  mockery  of  faith, 
And  hopes,  beyond  the  power  of  death — 
But  never,  in  my  wildest  hour, 
My  heart  has  disbelieved  His  power ! 

"  No ! — I  have  strove  to  think,  in  vain, 
That  it  was  superstition's  chain. 
I  knew  he  lived  ! — yet  dared  his  wrath, 
Defied  his  vengeance  and  his  death : 
But  never,  save  in  one  dark  hour, 

Hath  this  parch'd  lip  denied  his  name — 
For  when  I  would  have  mock'd  his  power, 

My  mother's  form  before  me  came, 
With  that  same  look  she  used  to  wear, 
When  she  had  knelt  for  me  in  prayer. 
I  know  not,  if  I  yet  believe, 
What  you  as  sacred  truths  receive  ; 
But  I  have  felt,  when  near  my  bed, 
Thy  lips  the  word  of  truth  have  read, — 
And  memory  has  recall'd  the  sigh, 
That  bore  her  last  faint  prayer  on  high, — 
That  there  must  be  some  soothing  charm, 
Some  power,  in  what  could  thus  disarm 
The  scenes  of  death  and  suffering 
Of  half  the  anguish  of  their  sting." 

****** 

At  length,  he  felt  that  there  was  yet 
Some  respite  from  the  gnawing  pain, 

That,  like  a  burning  brand,  had  set 
Its  impress  on  his  heart  and  brain. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET    CHANDLER.  175 

He  was  not  happy — but  despair 

Had  soften'd  into  sadness  now — 
And  lingering  nights  of  tears  and  prayer, 

And  days  of  penitential  woe, — 
For  time  misspent,  and  hours  of  folly, 

For  passions  high,  and  deeds  of  ill, — 
Had  brought  a  soften'd  melancholy, 

And  hope  that  there  was  mercy  still. 
He  felt  that  yet  his  heart  had  ties 

To  bind  him  to  the  bright  green  earth, 
And  that  although  for  him  must  rise 

No  more  the  joyous  voice  of  mirth, 
There  still  might  be  an  hour  of  peace, 

When  life  and  woe  at  once  should  cease. 


TO  THE  LADIES'  FREE  PRODUCE  SOCIETY. 


These  lines  were  addressed  to  the  Ladies'  "  Free  Produce  Society,  of 
Philadelphia,"  a  short  time  previous  to  one  of  its  stated  meetings,  after 
the  author  had  removed  from  the  city. 


YOUR  gathering  day  !  and  I  am  not, 

As  erst,  amid  you  set ; 
But  even  from  this  distant  spot, 

My  thoughts  are  with  you  yet, 
As  freshly  as  in  hours  forgot, 

When  I  was  with  you  met. 


His  blessing  on  your  high  career ! 

Go,  press  unwearied  on, 
From  month  to  month,  from  year  to  year, 

Till  when  your  task  is  done, 
The  franchised  negro's  grateful  tear 

Proclaims  your  victory  won. 


176  POETICAL    WORKS    OF 

Oh  faint  you  not,  ye  gathered  band ! 

Although  your  way  be  long, 
And  they  who  ranged  against  you  stand, 

Are  numberless  and  strong  ; 
While  you  but  bear  a  feeble  hand, 

Unused  to  cope  with  wrong. 

Upon  your  injured  brother  look, 
And  nerve  ye  with  the  sight ! 

Could  you  the  good,  the  gentle,  brook 
To  wear  your  days  in  light, 

Regardless  that  by  sorrow  struck, 
He  pines  in  rayless  night  ? 

Oh  surely  't  is  a  blessed  fate, 

A  lot  like  that  ye  bear — 
To  bid  the  crush'd  and  desolate, 

Not  yield  them  to  despair, 
For  even  amidst  their  low  estate, 

Some  hearts  their  sufferings  share. 

And  never  your  high  task  forget, 
Till  they  are  chainless — free  ! 

Alas  !  that  ye  should  be  so  met, 
And  I  not  with  you  be ; 

Yet  sometimes  when  you  thus  are  set, 
One  heart  may  turn  to  me. 


TO  PRUDENCE  CRANDALL. 

HEAVEN  bless  thee,  noble  lady,  in  thy  purpose  good  and  high ! 
Give  knowledge  to  the  thirsting  mind,  light  to  the  asking  eye  ; 
Unseal  the  intellectual  page,  for  those  from  whom  dark  pride, 
With  tyrant  and  unholy  hands,  would  fain  its  treasures  hide. 

Still  bear  thou  up  unyielding  'gainst  persecution's  shock, 
Gentle  as  woman's  self,  yet  firm,  and  moveless  as  a  rock; 
A  thousand  spirits  yield  to  thee  their  gushing  sympathies, 
The  blessing  of  a  thousand  hearts  around  thy  pathway  lies. 


ELIZABETH   MARGARET    CHANDLER.  177 


WOMAN. 

THERE  are  who  lightly  speak  with  scornful  smiles, 
Of  woman's  faith,  of  woman's  artful  wiles  ; 
Who  call  her  false  in  heart/and  weak  in  mind, 
The  slave  of  fashion,  and  to  reason  blind. 
She  may  be  such  among  the  gilded  bowers, 
Where  changing  follies  serve  to  waste  the  hours — 
But  bear  her  from  the  giddy  world  afar, 
And  place  her  lonely,  like  the  evening  star, 
And  with  as  bright,  as  pure,  as  calm  a  beam, 
Her  milder  virtues  will  serenely  gleam : 
Go,  place  her  by  the  couch  of  pale  disease. 
And  bid  her  give  the  feverish  pulses  ease — 
Say,  will  she  not  the  task  unmurmuring  bear, 
To  soothe  the  anguish'd  brow  with  tender  care — 
To  trim  the  midnight  lamp,  and  from  her  eye, 
Though  dim  with  watching,  bid  soft  slumber  fly — 
With  lightly  whisper'd  voice,  and  noiseless  tread, 
Glide,  like  an  angel,  round  the  sick  man's  bed — 
With  tireless  patience  watch  the  speaking  eye, 
And  all  unask'd  his  slightest  wants  supply  ? 
It  is  not  hers  to  guide  the  storm  of  war, 
To  rule  the  state,  or  thunder  at  the  bar — 
It  is  not  hers  to  captivate  the  heart 
With  potent  eloquence,  resistless  art — 
To  sit  with  men  in  legislative  hall, 
To  govern  realms,  or  mark  their  rise  and  fall ; 
These  things  are  not  for  her.    'T  is  woman's  care 
Alone,  to  rear  the  shoots  that  flourish  there — 
To  list  the  lisping  voice,  with  joy  refined, 
To  watch  the  first  unfolding  of  the  mind, 
The  springing  dawn  of  intellectual  day, 
The  brighter  beam  of  reason's  perfect  ray  ; 
To  wipe  the  starting  tear  from  childhood's  eye, 
To  soothe  his  little  woes,  and  balms  apply, 
To  drink  of  science'  fount,  that  she  may  store 
His  opening  mind  with  all  her  gather'd  lore ; 
To  guard  his  morals  with  unceasing  care, 
And  bend,  for  him,  the  suppliant  knee  in  prayer, 


178  POETICAL    WORKS    OP 

Then  give  him,  in  his  full  and  perfect  worth, 
To  serve  the  land  that  smiled  upon  his  birth. 

Such  woman  is — and  shall  proud  man  forbear, 

The  converse  of  the  mind  with  her  to  share  ? 

No !  she  with  him  shall  knowledge'  pages  scan, 

And  be  the  partner,  not  the  toy,  of  man  ! 

When  smit  with  angry  fortune's  adverse  gale, 

E'en  his  stern  spirit  seems  at  length  to  quail — 

When  all  his  hopes  are  wreck'd,  his  health  has  flown, 

And  strangers  claim  the  land  he  calls  his  own  : 

When  friends  who  flatter'd  'neath  the  summer  sky, 

With  brow  estranged,  his  alter'd  fortunes  fly, 

Then,  woman,  it  is  thine,  with  changeless  heart, 

In  all  his  wretchedness  to  bear  a  part : 

To  quit  the  scenes  thy  smiles  could  once  illume, 

And  sink  with  him  to  poverty  and  gloom  ; 

To  soothe  his  sorrows,  calm  his  aching  head, 

And  hang  in  speechless  fondness  o'er  his  bed, 

His  woes,  his  wants,  his  sufferings  to  share, 

Thine  alter'd  lot  without  one  plaint  to  bear ; 

To  lock  thy  silent  sorrows  in  thy  breast, 

And  smile,  as  thou  wert  wont,  in  days  more  blest ; 

His  steps  to  follow  to  earth's  farthest  verge, 

O'er  icy  mount,  or  ocean's  foaming  surge ; 

With  hopes  of  better  days  his  heart  to  cheer, 

And  with  thy  smile,  to  shed  the  first  fond  tear. 

Such  changeless  faith  is  woman's — constant  still, 

Through  each  reversing  scene  of  good  and  ill. 

When  man  is  crush'd  by  storms  that  o'er  him  roll, 

Then  rises  woman's  timid,  shrinking  soul : 

Pain,  peril,  want,  she  fearlessly  will  bear. 

To  dash  from  man  the  cup  of  dark  despair ; 

And  only  asks  for  all  her  tireless  zeal, 

To  share  his  fate— whate'er  he  feels,  to  feel — 

To  breathe  in  his  fond  arms  her  latest  breath, 

And  murmur  out  the  loved  one's  name  in  death. 


ELIZABETH    MARGARET   CHANDLER.  179 


THE  INDIAN  MOTHER  TO  HER  SON. 

THY  foot  is  on  thy  father's  grave, 
Thine  eye  is  on  thy  father's  foes, 

Here  sleeps  what  once  was  free  and  brave ! 
There,  last  his  war-whoop  yell  arose ! 

And  where  thy  sire's  last  deed  was  done, 

There  first  thine  arm  shall  wake,  my  son. 


Thou  see'st  this  flower — thy  father's  heart 
Hath  nourish'd  up  its  early  bloom ; 

And  thou,  to  me,  hast  been  a  part 

Of  life,  and  hope,  through  years  of  gloom. — 

The  flowret's  stem  is  rent — and  thou 

Must  tear  thee  from  thv  mother  now. 


Ay,  hie  thee  forth — the  red  man's  yell, 
To-night,  shall  break  our  foemen's  sleep ; 

And  shrieks,  and  flames,  and  blood,  shall  tell, 
How  Indian  hearts  their  vengeance  keep ! 

How  Indian  sons  in  memory  nurse 

Their  dying  sires'  revengeful  curse. 


Yon  evening  wreath  of  fleecy  smoke 
Curls  gently  up  against  the  sky, — 

But  once  through  darker  volumes  broke 
The  midnight  flame,  the  mother's  cry ! 

And  there  again  the  day-beam's  smile, 

Shall  new  a  black  deserted  pile. 

The  morning  of  thy  life  was  there 

Where  white  man's  foot  now  blights  the  soil ; 
And  there  return 'd  from  chase  or  war, 

Thy  sire  was  wont  to  share  his  spoil — 
Revenge  his  death  !  I  charge  thee,  boy — 

And  win  the  warrior's  noble  joy. 


180  POETICAL   WORKS    OF 

THE  INDIAN  CAMP. 

I  STOOD  amidst  its  solitude !  where  erst 
The  mighty  of  the  desert  dwelt,  ere  yet 

The  thunder-cloud  of  desolation  burst 

In  darkness  o'er  them  ;  ere  their  sun  had  set. 

And  pale-faced  strangers  from  the  ocean's  strand, 

Had  look'd  with  evil  eye  across  their  fathers'  land. 


When,  like  the  wild-deer  of  their  own  dark  woods, 
They  trod  with  bounding  steps  its  gloomy  maze 

Fearless  and  free ;  or  stemm'd  the  rushing  flood 
In  light  canoe ;  and  pausing  but  to  raise 

Their  whoop  of  terror,  rush'd  to  distant  war, 

With  breast  and  brow  still  mark'd  with  many  a  former  scar. 


Methinks  I  see  them  now,  as  evening  came, 

Returning  homeward  from  the  lengthen'd  chase, 

The  haughty  fierceness  of  their  brows  grown  tame, 
And  round  their  necks  fond  childhood's  soft  embrace; 

While  lips  of  age  their  simple  welcome  spoke, 

And  silent  smiles  of  love  in  gentle  eyes  awoke. 


But  there  was  left  no  relic  of  them  there, 

Save  that  tradition  told  of  one  lone  spot, 
Where  they  had  long  been  sepulchred  ;  it  bore 

No  stone,  no  monument,  that  they  might  not 
Be  all  forgotten ;  but  the  forest  bough, 
In  aged  strength  bent  down  above  each  mouldering  brow. 


The  gushing  stream  beside  whose  limpid  waves 
They  oft  had  flung  them  when  the  chase  was  o'er, 

Or  paused  amid  its  hurrying  course  to  lave 
Their  thirsty  lips,  and  heated  brows,  of  yore, 

Still  rushes  nigh  them  with  its  shining  waves, 

But  pours  them  only  round  their  silent  graves. 


PHILANTHROPIC  AND  MORAL. 


I 


PHILANTHROPIC   AND    MORAL, 


BY 


ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER: 


PRINCIPALLY  RELATING 


ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY  IN  AMERICA. 


;  Daughters  of  the  Pilgrim  sires, 

Dwellers  by  their  mouldering  graves, 
Watchers  of  their  altar  fires, 
Look  upon  your  country's  slaves!" 

Are  not  woman's  pulses  warm, 
Beating  in  this  anguish'd  breast  ? 

Is  it  not  a  sister's  form, 
On  whose  limbs  these  fetters  rest? 

Oh  then,  save  her  from  a  doom, 
Worse  than  all  that  ye  may  bear ; 

Let  her  pass  not  to  the  tomb 
'Midst  her  bondage  and  despair." 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY   LEMUEL  HOWELL. 
1836. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Effects  of  Slavery 7 

Female  Education 8 

Dreaming 10 

Indifference 12 

Our  Duties 14 

Charity 15 

The  Harmans 17 

Wilhelmine 21 

The  Country 23 

John  Woolman 25 

The  Sightless... 26 

Opposition  to  Slavery 27 

A  Legend  of  Brandywine ....  29 

The  New  Year 32 

Right  and  Wrong 34 

Harriet  Rogers 35 

Slavery 37 

Fashion  Spectacles 39 

Ignorance 42 

Letters  on  Slavery  No.  I 43 

No.  II  ....  45 

No.  III...  47 

Excuses 49 

Female  Character 50 

Education  of  Slaves 51 


53 
54 
56 
57 
58 
GO 
61 
62 

Woman 64 

Mental  Reminiscences 65 

Selfishness 66 

Associations 68 


Letters  to  Isabel— No.  I  ... 

No.  II  . . 

No.  Ill  . 

No.  IV  . 

No.  V  . . 

No.  VI . . 

No.  VII. 

No.  VIII 


Page 

Review  of  Mrs.  Hemans'  Poetry  70 

The  Funeral  73 

Domestic  Economy 75 

Inconsistency 76 

The  Enfranchisement 78 

Conversation 80 

Star-Light 81 

Prejudice 81 

Obedience 82 

Spring  Flowers 84 

The  Dying  Slave 85 

Doing  as  Others  Do 86 

Slave  Luxuries 87 

Slaveholding 88 

Time 90 

Sunset 91 

The  Map 92 

Sources  of  Influence 93 

The  Slave  Trader 94 

Tea-Table  Talk 94 

Maternal  Influence ....  98 

Importunity 99 

Reasons    for  Flogging   Slaves  101 

The  Parting 102 

Human  Unhappiness 104 

Hannah  Kilham 105 

Spring 107 

The  Voice  of  Conscience 107 

Men-Selling 109 

Well-Wishers 110 

A  Prison  Scene Ill 

Consumers 113 

Influence  of    Slavery   on  the 

Female  Character 115 

Mental  Metempsychosis 117 

Evening  Retrospection 118 

The  Favourite  Season 119 

5 


PHILANTHROPIC  AND  MORAL  ESSAYS, 

BY 

ELIZABETH  MARGARET  CHANDLER. 


EFFECTS  OF  SLAVERY. 


"A  wretch  !  a  coward !  ay,  because  a  slave  J" 


AND  it  must  be  ever  thus ! — it  is  in  the  very  nature  of  slavery 
to  cast  a  benumbing  influence,  like  that  of  the  torpedo,  over  its 
unhappy  victims — degrading  every  nobler  faculty,  and  freezing 
up  the  very  life-springs  of  intellectual  excellence.  Men  say, 
truly,  that  the  slave  is  a  degraded  being,  debased — ay,  almost 
beneath  the  level  of  humanity.  What  matters  it  then,  that  he 
should  be  scorned,  and  despised,  and  trampled  upon  ?  A  slave  ! 
that  vilest  thing  in  creation — who  shall  extend  the  hand  of  be- 
nevolence to  wipe  the  cold  dews  of  suffering  from  his  forehead, 
or  stoop  to  whisper  in  his  ear  the  words  of  hope  and  consola- 
tion 1 — A  shade  of  sadness  may  cloud  the  brow  of  the  master, 
when  his  faithful  dog  sinks  to  death  at  his  feet — but  will  he 
shed  one  tear  over  the  grave  of  the  wretch,  who  has  lived  from 
youth  to  age,  toiling,  toiling  on,  through  summer's  heat,  and 
winter's  cold,  in  one  unvarying  round  of  labour  for  his  service? 
— And  why  should  he  1 — It  was  the  scourge  of  the  task-master, 
not  the  ready  impulse  of  grateful  affection,  that  urged  him  on 
in  his  daily  routine  of  toil — and  though  his  lip  might  sometimes 
murmur  the  words  of  ready  obedience,  the  tyrant  well  knew 
that  the  low  deep  curses  of  deadly  hatred  were  flung  back  in 
secret  return  for  oft-repeated  blows  and  menaces. 

What  wonder  is  it  that  the  slave  should  be  the  veriest  out- 
cast on  the  face  of  God's  beautiful  creation  1  But  who  has  made 
him  thus  ?  Was  it  the  omnipotent  Jehovah ! — the  God  of  love, 

7 


8  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

of  justice,  and  of  mercy? — No  !  the  answer  must  come  in  the 
deep  voice  of  thunder,  and  in  the  still  small  whisper  of  the 
midnight  couch — no  ! — it  was  man — his  brother — created  by 
the  same  hand,  and  in  the  same  image — that  hath  become  his 
oppressor,  and  wrought  him  this  foul  wrong.  "  Yoked  with 
the  brute,  and  fetter'd  to  the  soil,"  with  the  iron  hand  of  tyran- 
ny pressing  him  to  the  earth — and  the  thick  veil  of  intellectual 
darkness  drawn  forever  around  him — how  could  he  be  other- 
wise than  as  he  is  ?  But,  "  give  liberty  to  the  captive" — fling 
aside  his  fetters — and  bid  him  stand  proudly  erect  in  all  the 
majesty  of  a  freeman — and  his  soul — his  mind — his  whole 
character  will  soon  remodel  itself  to  the  dignity  of  his  outward 
form — he  will  be  again  a  man,  the  image  and  noblest  work  of 
his  Creator  !  Would  to  Heaven  the  hour  of  his  emancipation 
had  already  arrived  !  That  it  is  approaching  by  slowly  pro- 
gressive footsteps,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  system  of 
slavery  must  not,  will  not,  forever  cast  its  dark  stigma  on  the 
fair  pages  of  our  country's  annals.  Already  the  voice  of  jus- 
tice and  of  mercy  has  gone  forth.  Man  has  arisen  in  his 
compassionate  strength,  to  aid  the  cause  of  the  oppressed — and 
the  gentler  sympathies  of  woman's  soul  have  been  awakened 
from  their  long  slumber.  She  has  remembered  that  many  of 
her  cherished  luxuries  have  been  wet  with  the  tears  of  wretch- 
edness,  and  that  the  zephyr  which  flutters  around  her  tasteful 
garb,  comes  heavily  laden  with  the  sighs  of  the  oppressed. 
Oh !  will  she  not  then  cast  from  her  whatever  is  to  others  the 
source  of  a  sore  evil — and  bathe  her  lip,  and  array  her  form, 
only  in  those  things  which  are  untainted  by  the  hot  breath  of 
human  agony  ?  Much  may  be  effected  by  woman — important 
consequences  have,  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  been  produced  by 
her  influence — and  when  was  she  ever  a  loiterer  in  the  cause 
of  justice  and  humanity? 


FEMALE  EDUCATION. 

THE  great  effort  of  female  education  should  be,  to  qualify 
woman  to  discharge  her  duties,  not  to  exalt  her  till  she  despises 
them ;  to  make  it  her  ambition  to  merit  and  display  the  charac- 
ter of  the  most  amiable  and  intelligent  of  her  sex,  rather  than 
aspire  to  emulate  the  conduct  and  capacity  of  men.  In  our 


FEMALE    EDUCATION. 

country,  where,  under  the  mild  light  of  Christianity,  free  insti- 
tutions guaranty  freedom  of  thought,  of  expression,  of  action, 
the  full  and  free  development  of  mind  may  be  expected ;  and 
here,  if  in  any  country  on  earth,  women  may  hope  to  take  their 
true,  their  most  dignified  stations,  as  the  helpers,  the  companions, 
of  educated  and  independent  men.  And  while  our  citizens 
are  endeavouring  so  to  improve  their  inestimable  privileges,  that 
the  men  of  future  ages  may  be  better  and  happier  for  their 
labours,  have  women  no  share  in  the  important  task  1  Their 
influence  on  the  manners  is  readily  and  willingly  conceded  by 
every  one;  might  not  their  influence  on  the  mind  be  made 
quite  as  irresistible,  and  far  more  beneficial,  and  that,  too,  with- 
out violating  in  the  least,  the  propriety  which,  to  make  their 
examples  valuable,  should  ever  mark  their  conduct  1  The  bu- 
siness of  instruction  is  one  of  vast  interest,  because  fraught 
with  such  important  consequences  to  Americans.  It  is  neces- 
sary that  all  our  people  should  be  instructed,  as  universal  edu- 
cation is  the  main  pillar  that  must  eventually  support  the  temple 
of  our  liberty.  It  is  therefore  a  duty  sacredly  binding  on  our 
legislators  to  provide  for  the  instruction,  during  childhood  and 
youth,  of  every  member  of  our  republic.  But  while  there  are 
so  many  pursuits,  more  lucrative  and  agreeable  to  active  and 
ambitious  young  men,  there  will  be  a  lack  of  good  instructors 
— of  those  who  are  willing  to  make  it  their  business.  Let, 
then,  the  employment  of  school-keeping  be  principally  appro- 
priated to  females.  They  are  both  by  temper  and  habit  admi- 
rably qualified  for  the  task — they  have  patience,  fondness  for 
children,  and  are  accustomed  to  seclusion,  and  inured  to  self- 
government.  Is  it  objected  that  they  do  not  possess  sufficient 
soundness  of  learning — that  their  acquirements  are  showy, 
superficial,  frivolous  ?  The  fault  is  in  their  education,  not  in 
the  female  mind.  Only  afford  them  opportunities  for  improve- 
ment, and  motives  for  exertion  ;  let  them  be  assured,  that, 

"  to  sing,  to  dance, 

To  dress,  to  troll  the  tongue,  and  roll  their  eyes," 
is  not  all  that  is  required  to  make  young  ladies  agreeable  or 
sought  by  the  gentlemen — that  they  may  converse  sensibly 
without  the  charge  of  pedantry,  and  be  intelligent  without  the 
appellation  of  a  blue ;  in  short,  that  they  are  expected  to  be 
rational,  and  required  to  be  useful — and  they  will  not  disap- 
point public  expectation. 


10  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 


DREAMING. 

IT  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  dream.  I  do  not  mean  in  sleep, — 
for  such  dreams  are  generally  too  vague  and  indistinct — but 
when  you  are  broad  awake  at  mid-day  or  in  the  dim  twilight. 
Upon  a  hot  August  noon,  when  there  is  not  one  cloud  rioting 
upon  the  face  of  the  dazzling  sky,  to  give  your  eye  a  mo- 
mentary relief  from  its  intense  brightness  —  when  the  clear 
sun-beams  are  poured,  with  a  scorching  light,  full  upon  the 
glaring  brick  buildings  opposite  to  your  apartment,  and  reflected 
back  from  the  hot  pavement,  till  the  lazy  air,  that  lingers  about 
among  them,  seems  almost  to  become  visible  from  the  heat  it 
has  gathered,  and  comes  to  you  with  a  heavy,  parching  sultri- 
ness. Or  on  a  dreary  November  day,  when  the  rain  com- 
mences with  a  slow,  steady  drizzle,  increasing  gradually  into 
larger  drops,  till  it  comes  down  in  a  heavy,  regular,  monoto- 
nous shower — and  the  trees,  if  there  happen  to  be  any  within 
sight  of  your  window,  seem  actually  to  shiver  with  the  damp 
chilliness  of  the  weather,  as  they  stand  stretching  out  their 
wet  limbs,  with  the  rain  dripping  rapidly  from  the  few  brown 
and  curled  leaves  left  upon  them,  to  those  that  lie  still  more 
withered  beneath — oh,  it  is  delicious  then  to  shut  the  door  of 
your  thoughts  upon  the  outward  creation  that  is  around  you, 
and  forget  yourself  in  an  ideal  world — glorious  and  beautiful ! 
Fancy,  like  a  loosened  falcon,  springs  up  on  an  exulting  wing, 
and  bears  you  free  and  unfettered  wherever  you  may  list. — 
The  morning  sun  seems  to  light  up  for  your  eyes,  the  magnifi- 
cence of  Alpine  scenery ;  or  the  twilight  air  of  Cashmere 
steals  luxuriously  over  your  lips  and  forehead,  bathing  them 
with  the  gathered  fragrance  of  her  roses.  You  may  weave 
around  yourself  a  tissue  of  romantic  adventures,  or  exchange 
the  low  ceiling  and  narrow  walls  of  your  own  apartment,  for 
the  mountain  breezes  of  the  Catskill,  or  the  dazzling  display 
of  lights,  beauty  and  fashion,  in  a  ball-room  at  Saratoga. 

Nor  have  your  own  "  transmogrifications"  a  whit  less  of  the 
wonderful.  Were  it  not  that  yourself  has  been  the  magician, 
you  would  be  positively  in  doubt  as  to  your  own  identity. 
Your  little  lead-coloured  eyes,  the  light  of  whose  beams  could 
never  be  persuaded  to  turn"  in  the  same  direction,  are  transform- 
ed into  heavenly  azure,  and  their  long  lids  drop  over  them  with 
a  most  amiable  expression  of  melancholy — your  non-descript 


DREAMING.  11 

nose  becomes  suddenly  twisted  into  perfection,  and  your  whole 
face,  which,  after  a  month's  daily  inspection  in  the  glass,  with 
the  hope  of  discovering  some  unobtrusive  loveliness,  you  were 
compelled  to  acknowledge  monstrously  "  plain,"  you  find  as- 
tonishingly  altered  into  the  very  extremity  of  beauty — while 
your  silken  tresses,  which  had  formerly  approached  somewhat 
too  near  to  the  colour  of  vermilion,  to  be  accurately  described 
by  the  poetical  epithet  of  "  Golden,"  in  a  most  appropriate 
manner  "  cap  the  climax"  of  your  loveliness.  Then  you  may 
imagine  yourself  peerless  and  unrivalled,  the  brightest  star  on 
the  horizon  of  fashion — and  practise,  if  you  please,  the  haughty 
curl  of  your  exquisite  lip,  with  which  you  intend  to  receive 
the  adoration  of  your  worshippers,  or  the  graceful  bend  of 

your  superlative  head  with  which  you  will  accede  to  Mr. 's 

entreaty  that  you  will  allow  him  that  infinity  of  honour,  the 
pleasure  of  dancing  with  you. 

If  you  prefer  the  "  sentimental,'*  you  may  fancy  yourself 
seated  with  your  guitar,  where  the  quiet  moonbeams  steal  in 
between  clustering  branches  of  the  rose  and  honeysuckle,  to  list- 
en to  your  melody.  But  woe  to  your  dream,  should  you  forget  so 
deeply  as  to  give  sound  to  the  witching  of  your  voice  !  alas,  alas, 
you  have  never  yet  been  able  to  persuade  the  ungentleness  of 
your  voice  into  the  formation  of  one  note  of  harmony,  or  pre- 
vail upon  your  disobliging  ear  to  retain  the  recollection  of  a 
tune — and  the  beautiful  bubble  world  of  your  fancy,  with  all 
its  glorious  rain-bow  hues,  is  dashed  at  once  into  nothing ! 

But  better  and  pleasanter  than  all  this,  is  it  to  go  out  on  a 
calm  Sabbath  morning,  into  the  thick  woods,  and  lie  down  on 
a  green  bank,  by  the  twisted  roots  of  an  old  tree — where  the 
stream  that  steals  with  a  gentle  voice  between  the  grassy  banks, 
hath  a  purer  melody  in  its  tone  than  the  rich  swell  of  church- 
music  j — and  the  sweet  wild  flowers,  those  fair  and  perishing 
things,  frail  as  our  brightest  hopes,  and  like  them  springing  up 
everywhere  around  us — "lift  up  their  delicate  leaves  with  a 
lesson  for  your  heart  to  study;  —  and  the  honey-bee,  that 
comes  with  its  soft  hum  to  drink  their  sweets,  is  a  kind  moni- 
tor, teaching  you  thus  to  gather  into  the  storehouse  of  your 
thoughts,  the  sweet  recollections  of  well-spent  moments. 

The  dreams  of  our  sleep  are  sometimes  happy — but  they 
have  ever  their  waking  hour  ;  and  the  beautiful  creations  of 
our  unslumbering  fancy,  too  soon  leave  us  only  the  remem- 


12  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS* 

brance  that  they  were  but  shadows — with  sometimes,  too,  a 
sigh  over  the  far  different  fate  that  heaven  hath  assigned  us. 
But  that  visionary  mood  which  purifies  the  heart  while  it  gives 
it  happiness,  leaves  nothing  of  bitterness,  even  when  it  is 
broken  in  upon  by  the  ruder  voice  of  the  world. 

You  will  "  find  calm  thoughts  beneath  the  whispering  tree," 
and  the  low  rustle  of  the  forest  leaves,  that  comes  to  you  with 
the  cool  breeze,  hath  a  soothing  influence  for  the  heart.  The 
song  of  the  birds  will  be  understood  like  a  familiar  language, 
and  the  insect  forms  that  flit  past  you  in  the  scattered  sunshine, 
have  each  a  separate  history ;  or  you  may  gift  them  with  higher 
perceptibilities,  and  they  will  be  to  you  for  friends  and  fellow- 
worshippers. 


INDIFFERENCE. 

WE  believe  it  is  generally  acknowledged  that  there  is  more 
danger  to  be  apprehended  to  any  cause,  from  the  lukewarm- 
ness  of  its  pretended  friends,  than  from  the  bitterest  hostility 
of  its  professed  enemies.  The  attacks  of  the  one  will  always 
rouse  up  opponents  to  repel  them.  The  lethargy  of  the  other 
palsies  even  the  hand  of  zeal,  and  infects  with  a  benumbing 
influence  the  energies  of  the  warmest  hearted.  It  is  this  life- 
lessness,  this  apathy,  that  is  the  more  dangerous  enemy  to  the 
cause  of  Emancipation.  We  have  been  frequently  astonished 
at  the  perfect  indifference  manifested  when  this  subject  is  ad- 
verted to,  even  by  those  whom  we  might  suppose  would  be 
most  easily  interested,  and  among  some  who  openly  profess  to 
reprobate  the  system  of  slavery.  You  may  speak  of  the 
wrongs  and  sufferings  of  our  coloured  population;  you  may 
tell  them  of  all  the  evils  attendant  upon  slavery ;  you  may 
recount,  if  they  will  listen  to  you  so  long,  a  harrowing  tale  of 
human  misery,  till  your  own  cheek  burns,  and  heart  swells  at 
the  recital,  and  when  you  have  concluded,  they  will  turn  coldly 
away,  and  answer,  "All  this  may  be  very  true — but  why  do 
you  tell  it  to  us  ?  the  fault  is  not  ours,  nor  the  remedy  in  our 
power ;  it  is  useless,  therefore,  to  distress  ourselves  with  the 
thought  of  wretchedness  which  we  cannot  relieve."  Yet  they 
will  almost  always  conclude  with  acknowledging  that  the  sys- 


INDIFFERENCE*  13 

tern  of  slavery  is  both  criminal  and  disgraceful,  and  With  a  wish 
that  it  was  abolished  altogether : — while  at  the  same  time,  to 
judge  from  their  conduct,  they  seem  perfectly  determined  not 
to  raise  so  much  as  a  little  finger  in  aid  of  that  object.  "  And 
what  more  can  we  do,"  such  persons  may  perhaps  exclaim, 
"than  to  give  our  best  wishes  to  the  cause  of  emancipation?" 
You  can  do  a  great  deal  more — you  can  give  it  your  active 
exertions — and  you  must  do  so,  if  you  would  ever  behold  the 
day  when  the  cry  of  the  oppressed  shall  be  heard  no  more 
"  within  our  borders."  You  should  form  yourselves  into  soci- 
ties  for  the  opposition  of  slavery.  Your  interest  will,  by  that 
means,  be  kept  awake,  you  will  have  better  opportunities  both 
of  acquiring  and  diffusing  information  upon  the  subject,  and 
your  aid,  altogether,  will  bo  more  effective.  Nor  should  you 
imagine  you  have  completed  your  duty  by  declaring  yourselves 
the  enemies  of  oppression — you  should  endeavour  to  prevail 
upon  your  friends  to  do  likewise. 

The  subject  is  one  of  the  utmost  importance,  both  to  the 
moral  and  political  interests  of  our  country,  and  should  occupy 
your  thoughts,  and  be  made  the  theme  of  your  conversation, 
not  only  in  your  stated  meetings  for  its  discussion,  but  while 
you  are  engaged  in  your  daily  occupations,  or  when  you  have 
gathered  into  a  friendly  circle  around  the  evening  hearth.  We 
do  not  expect  the  influence  of  women  to  have  any  immediate 
or  perceptible  effect  upon  the  councils  of  the  Senate-house — 
but  let  their  efforts  be  steadily  directed  to  arousing  the  public 
mind  to  the  importance  of  this  subject,  and  keeping  awake  that 
attention  by  every  means  in  their  power,  and  we  have  no 
doubt  but  they  will  be  speedily  and  beneficially  felt.  It  is  use- 
less to  talk  of  the  difficulties  of  the  case,  of  the  danger  of 
intermeddling  with  a  subject  which  even  men  approach  with 
timidity,  and  of  the  total  impossibility  of  our  effecting  any 
change  in  the  course  of  circumstances.  We  do  not  see  the 
least  impossibility  in  the  matter,  and  we  deny  that  there  is  any. 
But  we  do  know  that  it  is  impossible  to  remove  from  the  bosom 
of  our  country  a  crime  that  should  weigh  her  plumed  head  in 
shame  to  the  very  dust,  by  sitting  passively  down,  and  wishing 
it  were  otherwise.  That  there  may  be  difficulties  in  the  case, 
we  admit,  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  suppose  that  it  is  entirely 
without  remedy.  Let  the  general  attention  be  but  thoroughly 
excited,  let  men  be  forced  into  the  necessity  of  acting,  and  effi- 

B 


14  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

cient  remedial  measures  will  soon  be  devised  and  adopted  I—- 
and so  we  may  yet  see  the  folds  of  our  "  star-spangled  ban- 
ner" floating  unsullied  on  the  free  air,  and  the  dark  sin,  which 
hath  so  long  polluted  our  country,  atoned  for  and  forgiven. 


OUR  DUTIES. 

"  IT  will  do  no  good" — is  an  answer  we  have  received  so 
often,  when  endeavouring  to  awaken  our  friends  to  the  subject 
of  emancipation,  that  we  are  positively  weary  of  hearing  it 
repeated,  and  almost  out  of  patience — just  as  if  the  success  or 
failure  of  our  endeavours  could  in  the  least  affect  the  question 
of  right  or  wrong ! 

Is  the  performance  of  duties  to  God  and  our  fellow-creatures 
the  less  emphatically  urged  upon  us,  because  we  choose  to 
imagine  it  will  have  no  effect  on  the  mass  of  human  crime  and 
misery?  Nay,  is  there  not  even  guilt  in  such  reasoning] 
Because  we  think  that  other  people  will  do  wrong  in  spite  of 
our  efforts  to  prevent  them,  should  we  join  in  upholding  them 
in  their  iniquity,  and  participate  with  them  in  the  enjoyment  of 
the  fruits  of  it?  And  in  such  a  case  we  need  scarcely  demand, 
which  would  be  most  deeply  criminal — those  who  thoughtlessly 
and  blindly  press  forward  on  a  career  of  guilt,  or  those,  who, 
fully  awake  to  its  sinfulness,  persist  in  lending  their  support  ? 

That  the  system  of  slavery,  as  existing  among  us  in  the  very 
bosom  of  these  free  States,  is  a  dark  outrage  upon  justice  and 
humanity,  we  presume  there  are  few  among  our  own  sex  hardy 
enough  to  dispute.  If  there  be  any  such,  they  must  daringly 
maintain  a  false  argument  in  the  very  face  of  conscience,  or 
have  been  strangely  blinded  by  a  long  series  of  years  of 
prejudice. 

"  But  what  signifies  our  combating  an  evil  that  we  can  never 
subdue  ?"  What  signifies  a  conscience  void  of  offence  in  the 
sight  of  the  everlasting  One?  What  signifies  the  calm  retro- 
spective reflection  of  the  twilight  hour,  broken  in  upon  by  no 
secret  consciousness  of  blood-guiltiness?  It  is  only  for  you  to 
act,  and  to  leave  to  Him — the  Omnipotent — the  judgment  and 
direction  of  your  usefulness. 

Because  you,  in  the  short-sightedness  of  mortality,  behold 
no  way  for  the  redemption  out  of  their  bonds,  of  an  oppressed 


CHARITY.  15 

people,  is  His  power  limited,  "  His  hand  shortened,  that  it  can- 
not save  ?"  And  have  we  not  good  grounds  for  believing,  that 
on  the  offering,  however  humble,  of  a  sincere  and  contrite  spirit, 
he  will  bestow  his  blessing  ?  We  are  told  that  faith — trusting 
and  unfaltering  faith — in  the  power  of  the  Almighty,  is  suffi- 
cient for  the  removal  of  mountains — and  yet  you,  because  to 
the  eye  of  human  reason  your  path  seems  clouded  with  diffi- 
culties, sit  down  in  utter  apathy,  nor  lift  up  even  so  much  as 
your  voices  of  prayer,  in  behalf  of  a  smitten  people ! 

Yet,  though  there  are  a  fearful  number  who  still  listen  with 
a  strange  indifference  to  the  soul-harrowing  eloquence  of  hu- 
man suffering,  thank  heaven  !  we  have  no  cause  of  despair. 
A  voice  has  gone  forth  over  the  sleeping  pool,  to  trouble  its 
waters,  and  there  are  many  who  have  already  gone  down  and 
cleansed  themselves  from  the  guilt  of  African  oppression.  A 
spirit  is  at  work  among  the  people  that  will  not  easily  be  quieted 
— a  leaven,  whose  vital  principle  will  not  be  destroyed  till  the 
whole  mass  is  leavened. 


CHARITY. 

"  THOUGH  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels," 
saith  St.  Paul,  "  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sound- 
ing brass,  or  a  tinkling  cymbal.  And  though  I  have  the  gift 
of  prophecy,  and  understand  all  mystery,  and  all  knowledge, 
and  though  I  have  all  faith  so  that  I  could  remove  mountains, 
and  have  not  charity,  I  am  nothing.  And  though  I  bestow  all 
my  goods  to  feed  the  poor,  and  though  I  give  my  body  to  be 
burned,  and  have  not  charity,  it  profiteth  me  nothing." 

Now  as  we  profess  to  be  a  nation  of  Christians,  it  is  but  na- 
tural to  suppose,  that  a  quality,  which  appears  to  be  the  most 
essential  principle  of  that  religion,  should  be  in  good  esteem 
among  us,  and  that  the  outward  form  of  it,  at  least,  should  be 
held  in  observance.  But  is  this  the  case  ?  We  will  read  you 
a  description  of  charity,  by  the  same  inspired  writer,  and  bid 
you  ask  the  same  question  of  your  consciences. 

"  Charity  suffereth  long  and  is  kind  ;  charity  envieth  not ; 
charity  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up,  doth  not  behave 
unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own,  is  not  easily  provoked,  think- 
eth  no  evil,  rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in  the  truth." 


16  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

Now  which  of  all  these  principles  does  not  slavery  violate  ? 
Where  is  the  long  suffering  that  our  slave-holders  exhibit,  when 
the  most  trifling  offence  on  the  part  of  their  human  cattle  is 
visited  by  the  horsewhip  ?  What  is  their  kindness  in  claiming 
from  their  brethren  a  daily  routine  of  unmitigated,  unrewarded 
toil,  through  a  long  series  of  years,  to  feed  their  luxury  ? 

"  Charity  envieth  not" — and  truly  envy  herself  could  scarcely 
grudge  the  few  poor  comforts  we  have  left  the  slave — but  is  not 
envy  of  the  superior  luxuries  and  comforts  of  others,  one  of 
the  main  inducing  causes  of  that  oppression  ?  As  for  that  hu- 
mility which  is  so  distinguishing  a  feature  in  charity  and  in 
the  Christian  religion,  we  know  that  it  is  utterly  inconsistent 
with  the  very  nature  of  absolute  power.  Are  we  not  mightily 
puffed  up  with  our  own  superiority  ?  Do  we  not  proudly  vaunt 
ourselves  as  being  even  of  a  higher  species  than  our  negro 
brethren  ?  And  is  it  seemly  that  we  should  cause  oppression 
with  a  high  hand  to  rule  upon  the  earth,  rioting  in  the  groans 
of  human  agony  1  Charity  seeketh  not  even  that  which  is  her 
own,  but  we  uphold  those  who  wring  with  violence  from  the 
hands  of  others  that  which  is  not  their  own.  Go  ask  the  poor 
victim,  a  female,  too,  perhaps — who  stands  there  all  bleeding 
and  lacerated  with  many  stripes,  what  was  the  magnitude  of 
the  offence  that  hath  been  punished  with  such  severe  chastise- 
ment— and  what  will  be  the  answer  ?  Some  trifling  employ- 
ment forgotten  or  neglected — -or  perhaps  the  passionate  out- 
pourings of  grief  for  some  beloved  one  from  whom  she  has 
been  forcibly  separated ! 

Yet  will  this  very  text,  in  the  very  seat  of  slavery,  be  sol- 
emnly pronounced  from  the  pulpit,  and  be  characterised  as 
containing  some  of  the  sublimest  principles  of  our  religion,  and 
commented  upon  with  overpowering  eloquence,  till  the  heart 
of  man  will  glow  within  his  bosom,  and  the  warm  tears  gush 
out  from  the  gentle  eyes  of  women — and  they  will  go  out 
from  the  house  of  worship,  and  forget  that  they  are  nourishing 
up  within  their  own  households,  a  system  that  is  at  open  vari- 
ance both  with  that,  and  every  other  principle  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion. 


THE   HARMANS.  17 

THE  HARMANS. 

Is  it  not  a  delightful  evening  ?  We  will  go  down  the  hill 
by  the  old  school-house — but  we  shall  not  meet  any  merry 
groups  of  the  scholars,  for  it  is  the  harvest  holy-days — then 
turn  at  the  mill,  and  pass  Robert  Harman's  pretty  farm-house. 
If  you  look  over  the  hill,  you  can  see  the  top  of  one  of  its 
chimneys  peeping  out  from  among  the  trees,  now ; — there — 
where  that  smoke-curl  is  rising. 

The  wood  sweeps  in  a  curve  round  the  foot  of  the  hill  before 
we  reach  it ;  but  you  will  not  be  fatigued,  for  when  we  descend 
a  few  steps  further  we  shall  quite  lose  the  warm  sunshine.  How 
beautiful  it  looks  on  the  top  of  that  old  wood — and  here  on  this 
hill  slope,  the  long  tree-shadows  are  drawn  so  distinctly ! 

When  we  pass  this  clump  of  oaks,  we  shall  come  within 
sight  of  the  open  fields  and  meadows.  Do  you  see  yon  clover- 
field  1  It  is  quite  purple  with  blossoms,  and  the  first  breeze 
that  comes  this  way  will  be  loaded  with  perfume;  there  is 
mingled  with  it  a  scent  of  fresh  hay,  too — farmer  Harman 
cannot  yet  have  finished  carrying  in  his  first  crop.  Ah !  there 
he  is,  with  his  "  hands"  all  busily  employed  around  him  ;  the 
wagon  has  just  been  brought  oiut,  and  they  are  about  to  com- 
mence loading.  I  intend  you  shall  be  acquainted  with  Robert 
Harman:  he  is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  our  western 
country  farmer — the  most  useful  man  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  respected  by  all  about  him.  He  was  elected  to  a  seat  in 
the  state  legislature,  a  couple  of  years  since,  and  there  is  con- 
siderable talk  of  his  being  held  up  for  senator  at  the  next 
election. 

Ha !  there  goes  Rolla  scampering  across  the  field,  to  seek 
out  his  crony,  little  George  Harman.  Many  a  joyous  frolic 
have  they  had  together,  while  I  have  looked  on  and  wondered 
which  of  the  two  was  most  delighted — the  boy  or  the  dog. 
There  is  Ned,  too,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  a  fork-load 
of  hay,  which  he  fancies  he  can  deposit  on  the  wagon. — There 
it  comes !  down  in  a  thick  shower  about  his  head,  almost 
smothering  him :  he  is  fairly  covered  with  it !  I  wish  you 
could  see  his  face  now,  as  he  turns  to  romp  with  Rolla.  I  can 
almost  see  the  flash  of  his  black  eyes  from  here !  He  is  one 
of  the  wildest  young  rogues  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  almost 
as  big  as  his  brother  Robert,  who  is  two  years  older. — Bob  is 

B2 


18  PHILANTHROPIC    AXD    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

most  like  his  mother,  both  in  looks  and  character — quieter  and 
more  delicate.  Yet  gentle  and  timid  as  you  would  take  him 
to  be,  there  are  few  men  more  inflexible  or  more  courageous  on 
any  point  of  duty  or  principle :  the  Indian's  torture  would 
scarcely  make  him  flinch. 

Here  is  the  house  :  you  cannot  more  than  catch  an  occasion- 
al glimpse  of  the  stone  walls,  it  is  so  thickly  covered  with  vines. 
That  multiflora  rose  almost  covers  the  end  of  the  long  piazza — 
and  the  beautiful  coral,  and  the  scented  monthly  honeysuckle, 
creep  in  twisted  luxuriance  up  its  pillars.  Then  there  are  the 
sweet  clematis,  and  the  passion-vine,  and  the  jessamine,  scat- 
tered about  on  frames ;  but  the  two  last  are  not  yet  in  bloom. 
Then  there  are  the  Washington-bower,  and  the  glacina,  with 
its  profusion  of  blue  flowers,  climbing  up  the  sides  of  the  house, 
and  almost  covering  even  the  chimney.  Those  trees,  almost 
bending  beneath  the  multitude  of  their  blossoms,  are  the  scented 
acacia  :  that  which  is  loaded  with  red  flowers,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  house,  is  a  horse-chestnut — and  this  so  covered  with 
white  waxen-like  flowers  is  the  philadelphus.  Then  do  but 
look  what  a  quantity  of  roses  !  white  and  red,  of  all  shades  ! — 
from  the  delicate  purity  of  the  white  bramble,  to  the  deep 
crimson  of  the  small  burgundy,  or  still  deeper  coloured  velvet 
rose.  Some  of  them  almost  look  in  at  the  windows  of  the 
pretty  little  parlour ;  and  if  you  would  look  in  there  too,  you 
would  see  a  plain  room,  to  be  sure,  but  the  most  perfect  neat- 
ness, and  a  large  book-case  filled  with  well  selected  books. 
You  would  know  that  by  the  very  binding — and  the  last  num- 
bers of  several  periodicals,  lying  on  the  table.  There  is  a 
piano,  too — and  some  good  engravings  and  pictures  in  water- 
colours  hanging  about  the  wall. 

There  is  Mary  Harman  herself! — spreading  the  supper-table, 
under  that  great  tree.  She  is  a  pretty  woman,  and  she  is  what 
is  a  great  deal  better — very  amiable,  and  an  excellent  wife  and 
mother.  Let  us  walk  on  a  little  further,  to  a  seat  which  I 
will  find  for  you  on  the  banks  of  the  creek,  and  I  will  tell  you 
something  of  her  history. 

Do  you  recollect  the  large  house  situated  on  the  left  of  Col. 
Carlington's  plantation,  in  Virginia?  That,  with  the  farm  at- 
tached to  it,  was  formerly  the  property  of  Robert  Harman.  It 
was  a  much  handsomer  place  then,  than  it  is  now  ;  for  the  trees 


THE   HARMANS.  19 

have  been  cut  down  from  about  it,  and  the  shrubbery  has  been 
sadly  neglected  of  late  years. 

Well,  I  will  tell  you  of  a  conversation  that  took  place  be- 
tween  Robert  and  his  wife,  on  the  green  lawn  in  front  of  that 
very  house.  Little  Bob,  the  oldest  boy,  was  just  one  year  old 
at  the  time,  and  his  father  had  given  the  slaves  a  holy-day, 
because  it  was  his  birth-day. 

"  How  happy  their  black  faces  looked  !"  said  Robert,  as  they 
left  the  lawn,  after  having  each  received  a  trifling  present  from 
their  mistress.  Mary  turned  her  face  towards  her  husband  ; 
but  there  was  a  shade  of  sadness  mingled  with  the  tenderness 
of  its  expression. 

"  Nay,  now,"  continued  he,  laughing,  "  I  know  all  you  are 
going  to  say  about  happiness  being  incompatible  with  slavery 
— but  I  am  sure  they  are  better  off  than  if  they  were  free,  you 
are  so  kind  to  them  !" 

"  They  are  slaves,  nevertheless :"  said  she,  "  and  though 
they  may  seem  gay  and  mirthful — even  contented — their  light- 
heartedness  is  only  the  absence  of  immediate  care,  not  the  in- 
dwelling sense  of  a  deep  happiness.  How  can  they  know  the 
fullness  of  bliss  which  I  feel  when  hanging  on  your  arm,  or 
pressing  my  lips  upon  the  fair  forehead  of  my  babe,  in  the 
consciousness,  that  no  hand,  save  that  of  our  God,  hath  the 
power  to  separate  us !  What  do  they  know  of  the  delight  of 
studying  the  beauties  of  the  natural  or  the  intellectual  world  ! 
You  say  truly,  that  your  plough-horses  know  scarcely  less  of 
the  harassing  cares  of  life  than  they  !  but  is  the  mere  absence 
of  care  sufficient  for  the  happiness  of  a  rational  being?  Would 
you,  dear  Robert,  purchase  a  dull  forgetfulness  of  evil,  at  the 
expense  of  the  high  nature  of  your  intellectual  being,  sensitive 
as  it  is  to  pain,  as  well  as  gladness  ?  I  know  you  would  not ! 
Yet,  poor  as  it  is,  even  that  much  of  bliss  is  denied  to  the  slave — 
for,  debased  as  his  nature  may  be,  he  is  still  human — and  he 
can  think  !  We  imagine  they  rush  exultingly  to  the  dance, 
when  it  may  be  only  to  drown  the  bitterness  of  their  dark  fore- 
bodings. I  wish  you  had  sometimes  watched  their  dark  coun- 
tenances, as  I  have  done,  when  you  have  carelessly  spoken  of 
liberty !  and  then  the  sin — oh !  Robert,  surely  there  must  be 
deep  sin  in  making  merchandize  thus  of  our  brethren — deem- 
ing them  scarcely  better  than  the  clods  they  till — they  whom 
God  hath  created  in  his  own  image." 


20  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

"  But  what  can  I  do,  dear  Mary  ?  I  will  acknowledge  that 
I  do  not  think  the  system  of  slavery  is  right ;  but  you  know 
that  I  received  most  of  them  from  my  father,  with  the  planta- 
tion. The  estate  is  already  mortgaged  for  more  than  half  its 
value,  and  if  I  free  the  slaves,  which  form  the  most  valuable 
part  of  my  property,  I  shall  probably  have  to  dispose  of  it  alto- 
gether. For  myself,  I  should  care  but  little,  for  I  am  already 
almost  wearied  of  this  life  of  inaction ;  but  I  could  not  become 
a  tiller  of  the  earth  here — where  we  have  mated  with  the 
proudest — for  your  sake,  I  could  not!  Could  I  bear  to  see 
eyes  look  coldly  on  you,  that  have  been  accustomed  to  gaze 
only  in  admiration  and  respect  ?  Can  I  drag  you  down  from 
the  station  in  which  I  found  you  in  your  father's  house,  and 
plunge  you  in  comparative  poverty  ? — Would  not  our  boy,  too, 
in  future  upbraid  me?  I  wish,  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul,  I 
wish  that  the  system  of  slavery  was  abolished  altogether — it  is 
a  national  iniquity — a  shameful  blot  upon  our  boasted  constitu- 
tion— but  for  an  individual  to  attempt  its  extinction  were  folly  !" 

Mary  raised  her  eyes — they  were  suffused  with  tears. 
"  Dearly  as  I  love  you,  Robert,  dearly  as  I  love  this  boy  ;  bet- 
ter, far  better,  than  my  own  life,  I  would  rather  behold  you, 
even  day  by  day,  winning  an  uncertain  subsistence  by  your 
own  exertions,  than  to  share  with  you  in  this  guilty  luxury  and 
splendour — for  guilty  that  must  be,  which  is  purchased  with 
wrong  to  another.  Do  not  think  of  me,  do  not  fear  for  me — 
the  loss  of  wealth  cannot  render  me  unhappy — oh  no !  the 
thought  of  wealth  like  that  comes  with  a  deadly  sickness  upon 
the  heart,  a  sensation  of  utter  hollowness !  even  poverty,  abject 
poverty,  would  be  preferable  to  such  splendour ;  but  that  will 
not  be  consequent  on  the  emancipation  of  your  slaves  ;  it  is  but 
somewhat  to  circumscribe  our  wishes,  and  we  shall  still  be  in- 
dependent. We  must  both  be  more  actively  employed,  it  is 
true — but  it  will  be  better  than  living  in  idleness  on  the  labour 
of  others.  Then  how  many  temptations  will  you  not  escape 
from  !  From  how  many  evils  will  this  boy  be  preserved  !  for 
what  is  there  so  likely  to  harden  the  heart,  and  to  nourish  up 
all  its  evil  passions,  as  the  possession  of  absolute  power  ?" 

"  Well,  Mary,"  said  her  husband,  "  my  slaves  shall  be  free ! 
— but  then  we  must  leave  here ;  and  I  have  no  other  property 
than  those  western  lands — will  you  go  there?" 

"  Oh  how  willingly !"  exclaimed  she ;  and  her  husband  then 


WILHELMINE.  21 

first  saw  the  deep  thankfulness  of  her  countenance.  She  had 
caught  his  hand  to  her  lips,  when  he  spoke  the  word  *  free,'  and 
he  felt  her  hot  tears  raining  upon  it ;  but  she  did  not  speak  nor 
lift  her  face  till  he  had  concluded. 

"  Remember,  love,  you  must  leave  these  vines  that  you  have 
nourished  up  into  beauty,  and  the  bowers  beneath  which  we  sat 
together  so  often,  and  all  the  pleasant  remembered  places 
where  we  have  passed  our  *  happy  bridal  days,'  and  the  com- 
forts that  you  have  enjoyed  so  long,  and  all  the  familiar  faces 
that  we  have  known,  and  the  friends,  too,  that  we  have  loved — 
and  go  out  info  a  place  unknown  to  us,  and  a  comparative  wil- 
derness— will  you  go,  dear  Mary  1" 

Her  face  was  still  wet  with  that  passion  of  grateful  tears, 
but  it  was  now  serene  and  smiling.  "  I  will !" 

"  And  can  you  leave  the  home  of  your  childhood,  and  your 
father,  and  your  mother,  and  your  brothers,  and  the  sister  who 
has  grown  up  by  your  side,  and  been  to  you  like  another  self, 
almost,  for  so  many  years  ?" 

Mary's  face  grew  very  white,  and  there  was  a  deep,  frut 
momentary  struggle ;  she  was  firm  in  the  unfaltering  sense  of 
her  duty,  her  woman's  spirit  grew  strong  within  her,  and  she 
answered  calmly  and  steadily — "  I  will  go !" 

And  they  came. 


WILHELMINE. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  amid  the  silence  of  a  rural  burial-place  ; 
where  the  long  grass  curtains  so  luxuriantly  the  low  couches 
of  the  sleepers  there  ;  and  the  low  branches  of  the  ancient  trees 
fling  over  them  a  deep  shadow. 

There  is  one  down  in  that  wooded  valley,  where  I  have  sat 
for  hours  together,  almost  as  if  I  were  holding  communion 
with  its  still  inhabitants.  It  has  no  tomb-stones,  and  if  it  were 
not  for  the  deep  eloquence  of  those  heaped-up  mounds  of  earth, 
and  the  air  of  solemnity  about  that  venerable  building,  you 
might  take  it  to  be  a  common  pasture-field.  Let  us  go  sit 
down  upon  one  of  those  old  graves,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
history  of  the  first  gentle  bride  that  plighted  her  nuptial  troth 
within  these  gray  walls. 


22  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

Beautiful  Wilhelmine !  many  a  year  hath  gone  by,  since 
there,  from  her  heart's  pure  altar,  the  quiet  incense  of  her  de- 
votion rose  up  into  the  high  courts  of  heaven !  Long  since 
has  she  passed  away  from  the  pleasant  places  where  she  was 
once  a  dweller,  but  her  memory  is  still  lingering  about  among 
them,  as  the  spirit  of  fragrance  will  hover  over  the  frail  blossom, 
long  after  its  beauty  has  departed. 

It  was  a  century  since,  almost,  that  the  meek  girl  of  whom  I 
spake,  stood  up  within  that  low-roofed  worship-house,  to 
breathe  the  vows  of  her  unchangeable  fidelity.  She  was  of 
the  race  of  England's  noblest ;  but  the  power  of  God's  word 
had  come  upon  her  heart  and  smote  her,  so  that  all  the  gauds 
and  vanities  of  her  high  estate  became  to  her  as  nothing,  and 
she  grew  to  be  one  of  the  humblest  worshippers  of  a  despised 
sect — a  sister  in  the  faith  of  Fox  and  Penn  and  Whitehead. 

Then  the  magnificence  of  her  apparelling,  the  brilliance  of 
her  dazzling  jewelry,  and  the  splendour  of  her  father's  house, 
came  to  be  as  a  heavy  burden  upon  her  gentle  spirit ;  her  heart 
turned  sick  within  her  at  the  empty  glories  of  the  world,  and  for 
the  sake  of  her  soul's  peace,  she  dared  not  any  more  bow  down 
to  its  idle  vanities.  So  the  affectionate  girl  was  made  to  endure 
rather  to  be  an  alien  from  her  father's  house,  and  from  the  love 
of  her  stately  mother,  than  to  win  back  their  parental  blessing 
and  forgiveness  by  a  sinful  apostacy  from  the  high  nature  of 
her  religious  testimony. 

Many  a  sore  struggle  had  she,  that  gentle  creature,  with  the 
yearning  tenderness,  the  agonising  affection  of  her  smitten 
heart,  before  her  spirit  was  made  strong  for  the  sacrifice,  and 
she  gave  herself  wholly  up  to  God.  Then  there  was  a  deep 
peace  settled  upon  her  soul ;  and  in  her  meek  humility,  she 
became  a  beloved  friend  in  the  house  of  one  who  had  once 
been  a  menial  in  that  of  her  father.  And  they  came  hither  to 
this  beautiful  wilderness — her  aged  protectors  in  the  calm  un- 
bendingness  of  their  piety,  and  that  young  Christian  unfaltering 
in  her  high  trust,  that  they  might  worship  in  the  peacefulness 
of  their  pure  religion. 

But  the  glorious  spirit  of  that  exalted  creature  was  not  long 
uncompanied  here  in  these  solitary  places.  There  was  a 
youth,  not  indeed  of  her  own  proud  rank,  but  one  who,  for  the 
majestic  capacities  of  his  intellect,  might  have  been  the  mate 
of  princes.  But  he,  too,  had  subdued  the  earthliness  of  his 


THE   COUNTRY.  23 

spirit,  till  his  pulse  stirred  no  longer  at  the  promptings  of  am» 
bition,  and  he  became  to  her  a  dear  friend. 

It  was  by  his  side  that  she  stood  up,  beneath  that  forest- 
covered  roof,  at  the  time  of  which  I  told  you,  to  breathe,  in 
the  calm  steadfastness  of  her  heart,  the  promise  of  her  nuptial 
troth.  It  was  the  first  Christian  bridal  that  had  been  celebrated 
in  these,  then,  almost  untrodden  places,  and  there  was  a  still 
profounder  depth  of  sympathizing  silence  gathered  over  their 
lone  temple,  as  they  rose  up  and  stood  side  by  side,  with  their 
hands  clasped  together,  she,  in  the  stainlessness  of  her  exceed- 
ing  beauty, — a  most  sublime  creature, — with  the  simplicity  of 
her  bridal  robes,  bearing  no  other  ornament  than  their  perfect 
whiteness ;  and  he  bending  over  her  in  the  depth  of  his  holy 
affection,  and  uttering  the  solemn  words  of  his  love,  severally 
and  distinctly,  in  the  low,  deep  cadences  of  the  heart's  tones. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  her  sweet  musical  voice 
spake  over  the  same  words,  only  less  audible,  and  disturbed 
with  the  swelling  up  of  a  few  tears. 

But  why  should  I  go  on  to  tell  you  further  ?  For  a  brief 
space  she  moved  about,  the  light  and  blessing  of  his  quiet 
home.  But  there  was  a  gradual  change  at  work  upon  her, 
breathing  still  more  of  spirituality  into  the  dazzlingness  of  her 
beauty,  and  seeming  even  in  this  world  to  be  overpowering  the 
remains  of  her  mortal  nature,  till  it  became  as  a  mere  shadow, 
and  then  she  slept. 


THE  COUNTRY. 


The  meanest  flow'ret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  air,  the  sun,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  paradise. 

GRAY. 

I  PITY  the  man  who  can  glance  his  eye  over  the  above 
beautiful  lines,  without  feeling  that  they  have  often  been  the 
unspoken  language  of  his  own  heart.  To  myself,  their  disco- 
very formed  an  epoch  in  the  annals  of  imagination ;  and  often 
when  I  have  been  alone  amid  the  loveliness  of  nature,  they 


24  PHILANTHROPIC   AND    MORAL   ESSAYS. 

have  come  to  my  thought  like  a  channel,  whereby  my  heart 
might  pour  out  the  overflowing  of  its  happiness. 

But  in  order  to  feel  the  full  force  of  the  sentiment,  the  reader 
should  watch,  as  I  have  done,  the  slowly  progressive  footsteps 
of  Spring,  from  the  first  green  blade  that  peeps  out  from  the 
withered  grass,  like  an  advanced  guard  sent  forward  to  recon- 
noitre, till  even  the  complaining  boughs  of  the  sturdy  old 
forests  brighten  into  good  humour  beneath  her  smiles,  and 
wear  her  livery  as  meekly  as  the  humblest  blossom  they 
shadow.  He  should  see,  from  day  to  day,  the  tints  of  the 
evening  sky,  gradually  mellowing  into  their  most  perfect  soft- 
ness, and  know  how  pleasantly  the  streams  are  murmuring  in 
their  green  places,  where  the  flowers  that  he  loves  are  blossom- 
ing the  brightest,  and  the  birds  carolling  the  same  songs  that 
he  listened  to  in  his  early  years,  when  he  delighted  to  watch  them 
flitting  around  him,  till  he  almost  fancied  he  could  recognize 
their  individual  forms.  He  must  know  and  feel  all  this,  and 
yet  be  pent  up  to  breathe  the  air  of  a  populous  city,  till  his 
heart,  like  a  caged  bird,  sickens  for  liberty- — and  then  find  him- 
self at  once,  as  it  were,  transported  into  the  midst  of  the  green 
hills  and  shaded  waters  of  his  childhood's  home.  They  may 
talk  of  the  pleasure  of  a  summer  excursion  to  Long-Branch, 
or  to  Saratoga — and  pleasure  there  may  undoubtedly  be — but 
it  is  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  the  delight  of  having  es- 
caped from 

The  cold  heartless  city, 
With  its  forms  and  dull  routine, 

into  a  very  paradise  of  rocks,  hills,  woods,  wild  flowers,  and 
waterfalls,  where  you  may  revel  like  a  child  in  fresh  air  and 
sunshine,  till  you  feel  that  even  existence  alone  is  blessed  ; 
where  the  name  of  stranger  is  in  itself  a  passport  to  hospitali- 
ty, but  where  the  name  of  a  friend  secures  to  you  a  reception, 
like  that  of  a  child  of  their  own  families,  in  the  homes  of  a 
lain,  but  unsophisticated  and  warm-hearted  people. 


JOHN  WOOLMAN.  25 

JOHN  WOOLMAN. 

HAVE  you  ever,  gentle  reader,  chanced  to  meet  with  the 
History  of  the  Life  of  John  Woolman  ? 

If  you  have  not,  then  go,  I  pray  you,  to  the  library  of  some 
ancient  Quaker  of  your  acquaintance,  and  borrow  it.  But  do  not 
read  it  then — not,  at  least,  if  the  "  Wept  of  the  Wish-ton-wish," 
with  half  its  leaves  still  uncut,  is  lying  upon  your  table — or  if 
you  have  only  just  peeped  between  the  pages  of  one  of  the 
annuals ; — but  when  you  are  wearied  of  all  these  things ; 
when  you  sit  among  your  "  pleasant  company  of  books,"  list- 
less and  discontented;  when  your  heart  turns  sick  with  the 
long  details  of  human  crime  and  misery,  written  within  your 
volumes  of  history ;  when  biography  serves  but  to  humble 
you,  with  the  knowledge  that  the  best  have  been  so  frail,  and  the 
wisest  so  ignorant ;  when  philosophy,  which  has  led  you  with 
a  proud  wing  among  the  secret  influences  of  nature,  leaves  you 
but  a  knowledge  of  your  own  ignorance — and  poetry,  glorious 
poetry,  that  you  thought  had  almost  become  a  portion  of  the 
life-spring  of  your  heart, — you  fed  so  long  on  its  magnificent 
imaginings — comes  only  with  a  dazzling  garish  ness  to  your 
worn  and  feverish  spirit — then  go  forget  yourself  for  a  while, 
in  the  unpretendingness  of  John  Woolrnan's  auto-biography. 

Were  you  ever  ill  of  a  fever? — and  do  you  recollect  the 
blessedness  with  which  you  closed  your  eyes,  when  the  cool 
fingers  of  a  beloved  friend,  came  and  pushed  aside  the  loose 
hair,  and  were  laid  upon  your  hot  forehead.  With  such  a 
moonlight  feeling,  will  the  pure  simplicity  of  Woolman  come 
to  your  sick  heart.  There  is  no  glitter  of  fancy,  no  display 
of  stupendous  intellect,  no  splendid  imaginations  to  bewilder 
you  into  tears,  with  their  intensity  of  brightness ;  it  is  not 
even  a  tale  of  striking  or  romantic  incident ;  but  it  is  the  beau- 
tiful history  of  a  meek  heart  laid  open  before  you,  in  all  its 
guilelessness.  You  will  become  familiar  with  a  character  of 
the  most  perfect  humility,  full  of  a  simple  majesty,  yet  gentle 
as  a  very  child,  unfaltering  in  its  quiet  self-denial,  and  un- 
bending to  its  own  weaknesses,  assuming  no  superior  sanctity, 
lifting  not  up  the  voice  of  stern  judgment  against  the  fraU- 
ties  of  others,  and  gifted  with  all  the  holy  and  affectionate 
charities  of  life. 

You  will  feel  a  purifying  influence  steal  gradually  over  your 
C 


26  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

heart,  while  you  bend  over  the  quiet  pages,  calming  the  rude 
beatings  of  its  pulse  into  a  thankful  evenness,  and  cooling  the 
impatient  irritation  of  your  spirit,  with  the  lesson  of  its  gentle 
words,  till  you  feel  almost  as  if  the  unworldly  moments  of  your 
childhood's  time  had  again  come  back  to  you. 


THE  SIGHTLESS. 

I  DID  not  always  think,  Ellen,  said  Catherine  Dorman,  that 
I  could  have  been  so  happy  as  I  now  feel,  under  this  affliction. 
When  I  first  knew  that  I  was  no  more  to  see  the  familiar  faces 
that  I  had  so  long  loved,  I  thought  that  as  deep  a  darkness 
would  be  forever  upon  my  heart,  as  that  which  dwelt  perpetu- 
ally around  me  in  the  outward  world. 

The  speaker  was  a  young  pale  girl,  who  was  sitting  with 
the  companion  she  addressed  upon  the  steps  of  a  vine- wreathed 
portico.  As  she  turned  her  face  while  she  spoke,  it  caught  a 
slight  flush  from  the  rich  glow  of  a  summer  sunset,  and  her 
beautiful  eye  —  beautiful  even  amidst  its  darkness  —  seemed 
to  discourse  almost  as  eloquently  as  in  former  hours. 

Ellen  answered  only  by  stooping  to  touch  her  lips  to  the 
quiet  brow  of  her  companion. 

It  is  true,  resumed  the  gentle  speaker,  that  there  are  some- 
times moments  when  I  feel  impatient  and  sorrowful ;  but  when 
I  hear  the  soft  step  of  my  mother,  or  the  approaching  tread  of 
your  own  light  foot,  Ellen,  your  affection  seems  such  a  deep 
fountain  of  blessedness,  that  I  wonder  how  1  could  for  an  in- 
stant have  yielded  to  repinings.  I  did  not  love  you  half  so 
well,  my  friend,  when  I  could  read  your  eloquent  thoughts  in 
your  gentle  eyes,  as  now  that  your  face  has  become  to  me  only 
as  a  memory. 

Then  how  finely  acute  are  the  other  perceptions  rendered  by 
blindness  !  I  did  not  know  half  the  exquisite  touches  of  the 
human  voice  till  now — nor  the  thousand  melodies  of  nature 
— nor  the  numberless  delicate  varieties  of  perfume  that  are 
mingled  in  the  smell  of  the  sweet  flowers — nor  the  almost 
impalpable  differences  of  touch  ;  and,  although  I  can  no  longer 
look  abroad  upon  the  living  forms  of  nature,  I  have  them  all 
pictured  here  upon  my  heart,  vividly  and  distinctly — as  a  lens 


THE    SIGHTLESS. OPPOSITION    TO    SLAVERY.  27 

will  throw  back  into  a  darkened  apartment,  in  beautiful  minia- 
ture proportions,  a  perfect  shadowing  of  the  outward  scene. 

It  is  true  I  cannot  see  the  beautiful  blossoms  that  are 
clustering  in  such  profusion  about  my  head,  but  I  could  tell 
them  all  over  by  their  names ;  and  although  I  may  not  look 
again,  dear  Ellen,  upon  the  glorious  sunset  sky,  that  we  have 
watched  together  so  often,  yet  I  know  how  the  clouds  are 
sprinkled,  in  their  golden  shadowing,  over  the  blue  concave — 
so  I  will  not  be  sad  that  you  must  gaze  upon  them  in  loneliness. 

Surely,  "  God  tempereth  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  mur- 
mured Ellen,  while  an  affectionate  tear  trembled  on  her  eye- 
lids :  then  in  a  quicker  and  .clearer  voice  she  added,  "  Shall 
we  sing,  dear  Catherine?" — and  the  music  of  their  sweet 
voices  went  up  together : 

Oh,  hallow  the  beautiful  sunset  hour, 

When  it  comes  with  the  hush  of  its  chastening  power  ! 

Though  the  thoughts  of  the  world,  through  the  day-glare  have  been 

Betwixt  God  and  thy  heart  like  a  shadowing  screen, 

Now  the  hot  pulse  of  nature  is  still'd  into  rest, 

So  cool  thou  the  fever  that  burns  in  thy  breast. 

The  time  of  the  twilight ! — oh !  cherish  it  well, 
For  its  whispering  hush  hath  a  holy  spell  I 
And  the  weary  burden  of  earthly  care, 
Is  flung  from  the  heart  by  the  spirit's  prayer ; 
And  the  haunting  thoughts  of  the  sinful  day, 
Should  pass  with  its  garish  beam  away. 

The  sunset  hour  ! — how  its  bright  hues  speak 
Of  the  dying  smile  on  the  Christian's  cheek  ! 
And  the  stirring  leaves,  with  their  low  sweet  tone, 
Have  a  voice  to  the  listening  spirit  known ; 
And  holier  thoughts  on  your  breast  have  power, 
'Midst  the  hush  of  the  beautiful  sunset  hour. 


OPPOSITION  TO  SLAVERY. 

THE  subject  of  Emancipation  appears,  frequently,  to  be  consi- 
dered merely  as  one  of  taste  or  fancy,  which  is  to  be  engaged  in 
only  by  those  whose  inclination  leads  them  to  consider  it  an 
object  of  interest.  But  opposition  to  slavery  is  not  a  thing  to 


28  PHILANTHROPIC   AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

be  entered  upon  only  through  a  transient  excitement,  or  for  a 
display  of  benevolent  feeling,  or  the  indulgence  of  an  amiable 
humanity ;  and  which  it  is  allowable  to  neglect  in  the  absence 
of  these  or  any  other  selfish  motives.  It  should  be  considered 
the  conscientious  discharge  of  an  imperative  duty,  and  the  only 
means  of  avoiding  a  participation  in  guilt.  It  is  folly  to  say 
that  we  have  no  agency  in  the  oppression  of  the  slave,  while 
we  are  revelling  in  the  luxuries  produced  by  his  extorted  labour. 
It  is  vain  to  endeavour  to  clear  ourselves  of  the  obloquy,  by 
heaping  execrations  on  those  more  immediately  concerned  ;  so 
long  as  we  continue  to  be  partakers  of  its  fruits,  are  we  active 
supporters  of  the  system  of  slavery.  It  may  be  said  that  we 
do  this  unwillingly — that  we  cannot,  in  fact,  altogether  avoid 
it — and  that  our  principles  are  in  direct  opposition  to  slavery. 
But  this  does  not  absolve  us  from  the  necessity  of  making 
some  exertion  to  remedy  the  evil  of  which  we  complain.  If 
it  is  so  very  difficult,  in  the  present  state  of  things,  to  keep 
ourselves  from  partaking  of  the  fruits  of  iniquity,  then  ought 
we  to  feel  the  more  urgently  constrained  to  make  use  of  every 
effort  in  our  power  to  exterminate  the  system  which  so  widely 
extends  its  poisonous  influence. 

If  you  find  it  impossible  now  to  obtain  all  the  articles  you 
may  wish,  "  uncontaminated  by  the  taint  of  slavery,"  then  it 
rests  with  you  to  relax  not  your  endeavours  until  it  is  no  longer 
impossible.  Make  use  of  the  products  of  free  labour,  when- 
ever by  any  efforts  you  are  able  to  procure  them.  Do  not 
suffer  yourselves  to  remain  inert,  because  you  suppose  your  ex- 
ertions will  be  unfelt :  it  is  well  to  be  engaged  in  a  good  cause, 
even  if  all  the  energies  devoted  to  its  service  should  be  ineffectual 
to  advance  its  interests  one  step.  But  here  your  exertions  will  not 
be  wasted — you  can  do  much.  Besides  promoting  the  con- 
sumption of  free  produce,  the  influence  of  woman  may  be 
widely  felt  in  awaking  a  more  general  interest  in  the  cause  of 
Emancipation.  By  forming  societies  for  the  publication  and 
distribution  of  tracts  and  pamphlets  relative  to  that  subject,  in- 
formation respecting  slavery  might  be  largely  disseminated, 
and  the  feelings  of  many  hitherto  unthinking  persons  aroused 
into  detestation  of  a  system  which  is  a  source  of  so  much 
misery  and  degradation.  The  evil  is  of  a  nature,  that,  in  the 
present  state  of  mental  cultivation,  cannot  be  long  or  generally 
tolerated,  after  its  character  has  been  fully  exposed  and  reflect- 


LEGEND    OF    BRANDYWINE.  29 

ed  upon.  In  England  much  good  has  been  done  by  this  means. 
Thousands  of  pamphlets  and  cards,  containing  a  concise 
account  of  the  nature  of  colonial  slavery,  have  been  distributed 
by  female  societies,  and  a  large  portion  of  our  own  sex  are  en- 
gaged, heart  and  hand,  with  their  brethren  in  the  work  of  its 
extermination.  The  same  measure  would,  no  doubt,  here  be 
productive  of  equally  beneficial  results,  and  we  hope  ere  long 
to  see  it  adopted. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRANDYWINE. 


-"  We  went  on 


In  vain — there  was  no  living  one — 
But  many  an  English  mother's  care, 
And  many  a  lady's  love,  lay  there. 
******* 
Oh  blessed  Virgin  !  who  might  be 
Unmoved  that  mournful  sight  to  see ! 

'T  was  a  warrior  youth,  whose  golden  hair 
All  lightly  waved  in  the  dewy  air ; 
Slumbering  he  seem'd,  but  drew  no  breath, 
His  sleep  was  the  heavy  sleep  of  death." 


"Now,  by  the  dukedom  of  Northumberland,  but  this  is 
strange !"  exclaimed  a  young  British  officer,  as  he  reined  in 
his  steed,  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  and  gazed  earnestly  at  the  sur- 
rounding landscape. 

"  What  is  it  that  is  so  strange,  Percy  ?"  demanded  a  fellow- 
soldier  who  rode  up  to  him  at  the  instant. 

The  speakers  were  both  young  men,  and  the  first  of  them 
eminently  beautiful. 

The  profusion  of  fair  curls  that  clustered  over  his  white  fore- 
head, the  regularity  of  his  features,  the  delicacy  of  his  com- 
plexion, and  the  gentle  expression  of  his  blue  eye,  might  have 
given  a  feminine  loveliness  to  his  countenance,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  manly  firmness  that  was  written  on  his  serious  lip,  and 
the  high-thoughted  melancholy  of  his  brow.  The  companions 

C2 


30  PHILANTHROPIC    AIS'D    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

continued  conversing  in  a  low  tone,  as  they  passed  slowly 
down  the  declivity — at  length  their  voices  became  more  distinct. 

"  Ay,"  said  Percy ;  "  the  scenery  that  1  have  loved  from  my 
childhood  is  not  more  familiar  to  me  than  this." 

"What  can  you  mean?"  exclaimed  his  friend,  in  evident 
surprise.  "  That  I  am  to  die  here  !"  answered  Percy.  His 
face  was  very  pale,  and  though  he  spoke  steadily,  it  was  with 
an  evident  effort. 

"  I  am  serious — T  am  not  raving,  Ashton.  I  have  seen  that 
landscape  again  and  again — it  has  come  to  my  dreams,  and 
been  before  me  when  I  have  closed  my  eyes  in  the  dim  twilight. 
There  was  a  fearful  conflict  here,  too — and  I  was  in  the  midst, 
with  a  burning  cheek,  and  a  flashing  eye,  caring  not  for  the 
sight  of  blood,  nor  for  the  carnage  that  was  around  me,  till  I 
lay  upon  the  red,  wet  earth,  amidst  the  ghastly  faces  of  slain 
men. 

"  Then  for  a  while  there  was  an  indistinctness  in  the  vision, 
till  presently  I  was  no  longer  in  the  open  air,  and  my  whole 
frame  was  burning  with  insupportable  agony.  The  groans  of 
the  maimed  and  dying  wretches  who  were  near  me,  rang  con- 
tinually in  my  ears,  and  unknown  faces  were  bending  over  me 
in  offices  of  kindness.  I  was  sensible  then,  and  I  knew  that  I 
was  dying,  and  the  thought  of  my  mother  came  like  a  gush 
of  fiery  lead  upon  my  heart.  Yet  then,  after  the  dream  had 
left  me,  I  cared  but  little  for  its  monitions.  I  felt,  it  is  true, 
that  I  ought  not  to  come  here  bathing  my  hands  causelessly  in 
human  blood,  yet  a  wild  indignation  for  a  fancied  wrong,  and 
a  thirst  for  the  glory  of  a  conqueror,  urged  rne  on — so  my 
mother's  prayers  were  wasted,  and  I  came.  And  now  I  know 
that  I  am  to  die  here." 

His  friend  listened  in  painful  silence,  and  after  a  short  pause, 
Percy  continued.  "  This  is  not  cowardice,  Ashton,  though  you 
may  perhaps  consider  it  such — but  no — you  will  not — we  have 
been  known  to  each  other  too  long  and  too  intimately  for  such 
a  thought." 

He  took  out  his  watch,  and  after  looking  at  the  hour,  placed 
it  in  his  friend's  hand.  "  I  shall  never  need  it  more,  but  you 
will  keep  it,  Ashton,  in  remembrance  of  one  who  loved  you — 
and  these  papers — will  you  take  charge  of  them  ?  there  is  a 
letter  which  I  wish  you  to  deliver  to  my  mother ;  and  tell" 

At  this  instant  the  advanced  lines  of  the  American  army 


LEGEND    OF    BRANDYWINE.  31 

appeared  hurrying  forward  at  a  quick  run,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments the  friends  were  mingling  in  the  wild  affray  of  battle. 

The  day  was  fast  wearing  to  a  close.  The  smoke-clouds 
were  still  hovering  over  the  war-field  of  Brandywine,  but  its 
wild  uproar  had  died  away  into  a  fearful  silence ;  for  the  vic- 
tory was  won  and  lost.  On  what  had  been  that  day  the  scene 
of  the  deadliest  conflict,  stood  the  low  walls  and  shaded  roof 
of  a  Quaker  worship-house.  On  its  floor  warm  life-blood  was 
poured  out,  as  if  it  had  been  a  libation  of  red  wine ;  and  in- 
stead of  the  quiet  prayer  and  thanksgiving  that  had  been  wont 
to  ascend  from  those  walls,  the  convulsive  groans  of  mortal 
agony,  and  the  wild  beseeching  prayer  for  mercy  to  the  parting 
spirit,  now  went  up  together. 

The  floor  and  the  rude  benches  were  covered  with  the  wound- 
ed, and  many  of  the  peaceful  men  who  had  met  there  on  the 
last  Sabbath  in  their  accustomed  worship,  were  now,  though 
sick  and  pale  with  the  carnage  around  them,  administering  aid 
and  comfort  to  the  sufferers.  One  of  these  knelt  to  support  the 
head  of  a  young  officer,  who  lay  apparently  lifeless  in  his  arms, 
while  another  bent  over  his  form,  holding  one  of  his  hands, 
and  occasionally  moistening  his  lips,  and  bathing  his  pale 
brow. 

"  Does  he  live?"  demanded  Ashton  gaspingly,  as  he  entered 
and  stole  hurriedly  towards  the  group. 

"  He  breathes,  but  life  is  waxing  faint — very ;"  was  the 
answer. 

Ashton  gazed  a  moment  upon  that  still  white  countenance, 
till  he  felt  as  if  a  sudden  blindness  had  come  over  him,  and, 
flinging  himself  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  his  friend,  he 
sobbed  audibly. 

"  Percy,  dear  Percy !"  he  exclaimed  in  his  agony,  "  will  you 
not  speak  to  me,  will  you  only  look  at  me  but  once  more  ?" 

His  voice  seemed  to  rekindle  for  an  instant  the  fleeting  spark 
of  animation  in  the  bosom  of  Percy,  for  he  half  lifted  his 
heavy  eyelids,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  his  friend. 

"  God  bless  you,  Ashton,"  murmured  he ;  "  tell  my  mother 
that  my  last  earthly  thoughts  were  of  her — that  I  died  happy, 
and  I  trust,  forgiven  of  my  sins — and  tell  Constance — but  no, 
it  will  be  better  not — but  do  not  let  them  take  the  portrait  from 
my  neck,  Ashton." 

His  voice  grew  fainter  as  he  concluded,  and  when,  with  a 


132  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

feeble  pressure  of  the  venerable  hand  that  still  retained  his 
within  its  grasp,  he  strove  to  speak  somewhat  of  his  kindly 
thanks,  the  words  died  away  inarticulately  from  his  lips.  Ash- 
ton  bent  over  him — tearless,  breathless,  with  the  intensity  of  his 
feelings — but  no  warm  breath  came  upwards  to  his  cheek. 
Percy  was  dead. 

********** 

How  I  love  the  beautiful  repose  of  a  country  Sabbath.  The 
very  breezes  seem  to  go  by  with  a  quieter  tone,  and  the  light 
clouds  to  rest  even  more  peacefully  than  their  wont,  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  pure  sky.  Then  what  an  air  of  serenity  has  the 
venerable  house  of  prayer,  that  stands  so  embowered  among 
its  shadowing  trees — surely  the  heart  that  enters  there  must  be 
hushed  and  softened  with  its  purifying  influence.  Shall  we  not 
go  up,  and  join  with  those  who  worship  there  ? 

Ay,  let  us  go — for  we  may  well  humble  ourselves  before  our 
God,  upon  a  spot  that  was  once  scathed  by  the  desolation  of 
man's  ravage.  This  valley,  that  now  looks  so  lovely  in  its 
slumbering  tranquillity,  once  rang  with  all  the  wild  turmoil  of 
battle.  Behind  yonder  hills,  you  may  hear  the  murmurs  of  the 
shaded  Brandywine,  and  here,  where  you  now  stand,  the  earth 
was  red  with  slaughter,  on  the  day  of  that  fight.  On  that 
height  Lafayette  received  his  first  wound  in  the  service  of  our 
country — these  fields,  where  the  luxuriant  corn  is  now  bending 
so  gracefully  to  the  breeze,  were  then  the  death-couch  of  many 
men — and  that  building,  around  which  young  and  old  are  so 
quietly  gathering,  stood  once  the  centre  of  a  sanguinary  con- 
flict, and  was  crowded  with  its  victims. 

This,  then,  is  the  battle  scene  of  Brandywine,  and  here,  if 
tradition  may  be  credited,  lie  unmarked  by  a  single  memorial, 
the  remains  of  one  of  the  proud  race  of  Northumberland. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


"  Passing  away,  is  written  upon  the  world,  and  all  that  it  contains." 


THE  year  hath  gone  by.  Winter,  with  its  piercing  chill- 
ness  ;  its  storms  and  its  melancholy  blasts ;  its  pleasant  gather- 
ings round  the  cheerful  fireside,  and  its  hours  of  suffering  to 


THE    NEW    YEAR. 

those  against  whom  it  has  been  leagued  with  poverty — Spring, 
following  in  his  footsteps,  like  pity  after  sorrow,  and  "  pouring 
bairn  into  the  wounds  he  made,"  has  flung  the  garment  of 
gladness  over  stricken  Nature  in  her  hour  of  desolation — 
Summer,  with  his  hot  breath,  his  thunderbolts,  his  forked 
lightnings,  and  the  blessings  of  his  plenteous  fruits  —  and 
Autumn,  gathering  those  fruits  into  the  garner,  and  again 
pressing  upon  the  brow  of  Nature  the  signet  of  decay, — have 
lingered  with  us  for  their  allotted  time,  and  have  all  departed. 

It  is  well  for  us,  at  the  close  of  the  year,  to  look  back  at  the 
moments  that  have  past,  and  consider  whether  they  have  made 
us  wiser  and  better  than  we  were  at  its  commencement,  or 
whether  too  great  a  portion  of  them  has  not  been  unprofitably 
wasted.  When  we  call  back  to  memory  these  forgotten  hours, 
what  shall  we  find  in  the  account  which  they  have  carried  in 
against  us  ?  Have  we  been  properly  grateful  for  the  good  gifts 
we  have  received  from  the  Giver  of  all  good,  and  bowed  sub- 
missively to  the  afflictions  with  which  he  has  been  pleased  to 
visit  us  ?  Have  we  offered  up  "  the  morning  and  the  evening 
sacrifice"  of  a  spirit  conscious  of  its  own  frailties,  and  seeking 
after  holier  things  ?  Or  have  we  to  reproach  ourselves,  that 
"  we  have  left  undone  those  things  which  we  ought  to  have 
done ;  and  have  done  those  things  which  we  ought  not  to  have 
done?"  That  we  have  nurtured  pride  and  vanity  secretly 
within  our  hearts,  and  suffered  anger  and  discontent  too  fre- 
quently to  obtain  an  undue  empire  over  us  1 

A  year  !  How  rapidly  it  has  passed  away !  seeming  to 
some  of  us  scarcely  more  than  the  memory  of  an  indistinct 
dream,  it  has  wrought  upon  us  so  little  change.  To  others  it 
has  been  an  important  era,  crowded  with  eventful  incident,  and 
indelibly  impressed  upon  the  recollection  by  the  alterations  it 
has  made  in  character,  or  feeling,  or  circumstance.  Thousands 
hailed  its  entrance  with  gladness,  whose  hearts  are  now  crushed 
by  some  unsparing  desolation,  or  lie  cold  and  pulselesr  beneath 
the  withered  grass. 

And  who,  of  those  that  now  interchange  the  customary 
salutations  of  the  New  Year,  may  say  that  they  will  ever  be 
witnesses  of  its  dying  hour?  Surely,  then,  it  is  fitting  that  the 
present  moments  should  not  be  suffered  to  pass  unprofitably — 
that  we  should  erect  in  our  hearts  some  monument  of  good 
deeds,  whereby  we  may  know  that  th«v  V>P 


34  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL   ESSAYS. 

Then,  amid  the  festivities  that  are  attendant  upon  the  season, 
and  the  serious  thoughts  that  ought  to  be  gathered  around  its 
passing  hours,  shall  the  poor  and  miserable  plead  in  vain  for 
the  dole  of  compassion?  Woman  was  not  formed  to  look  upon 
scenes  of  suffering  with  a  careless  eye  :  it  is  alike  her  privilege 
and  her  duty  to  impart  consolation  to  the  sorrows  of  the  afflict- 
ed, and  relief  to  the  necessities  of  the  destitute.  And  whose 
cup  is  so  crowded  with  wretchedness  as  that  of  the  slave  1 
from  whom  may  he  hope  for  sympathy,  if  her  heart  is  closed 
against  the  cry  of  his  agony  ?  The  New  Year !  oh,  suffer  it 
not  to  go  by  and  leave  him  still  bending  hopelessly  beneath 
the  weight  of  his  fetters — uncheered  by  the  soothing  of  com-, 
passion,  and  the  knowledge  that  the  exertions  of  Woman,  at 
least,  will  be  given  to  the  cause  of  his  Emancipation ! 


RIGHT  AND  WRONG. 

THAT  the  errors  of  one  person  are  no  excuse  for  those  of 
another,  most  persons  are  very  willing  to  admit — when  the 
aphorism  is  not  used  in  application  to  themselves.  Yet  how 
often  is  it  urged  in  palliation  of  offences,  that  others  are  equally 
guilty  !  If  we  had  no  conscience ;  if  the  laws  of  God  were 
neither  written  upon  our  hearts,  nor  within  the  volume  of 
truth,  this  plea  might  justly  be  available.  But  as  it  is,  how- 
ever powerful  the  force  of  example  may  be,  the  errors  of  the 
best  and  wisest  cannot  justify  those  of  the  weakest  individual. 
Therefore,  the  moment  it  is  proved  to  us  by  those  laws,  that 
any  course  of  conduct  is  wrong,  that  instant  it  behoves  us  to 
alter  it,  before  an  infatuated  persistence  deepens  our  fault  into 
a  dark  iniquity.  No  matter  though  it  is  a  subject  which  all 
whom  we  have  been  accustomed  most  to  reverence,  look  upon 
with  carelessness  and  indifference — no  matter  for  the  example 
of  the  most  pious — if  you  are  acting  contrary  to  the  commands 
of  God,  shall  the  opinions  of  men  sustain  you  in  a  career  of 
sinfulness  ?  If  the  characters  of  the  most  righteous  are  still  im- 
perfect, then  it  is  needful  that  they  become  better  than  they 
have  yet  been ;  and  for  those  who  have  many  sins  to  rise  up 
against  them,  is  there  not  more  cause  that  they  should  garner 
up  the  memory  of  some  good  deeds  in  the  store-house  of  con- 
pcience  ?  It  is  true  that  in  many  matters  there  exists  a  great 


RIGHT   AND   WRONG*-— ^ROGERS.  35 

contrariety  of  opinion ;  some  persons  esteeming  innocent  those 
things  which  others  condemn  as  deeply  sinful ; — but  this  doubt 
can  exist  only  with  regard  to  secondary  duties — the  "  weightier 
matters  of  the  law"  are  so  plain,  that  unless  they  are  wilfully 
blind,  "  those  who  run  may  read  ;"  and  those  things  we  can 
neither  neglect  ourselves,  nor  support  the  violation  of  them  in 
others,  without  positive  guilt. 

If,  then,  right  and  wrong  are  distinctly  pointed  out  before  us, 
are  we  to  be  governed  in  our  choice  of  them  by  expediency, 
or  the  customs  of  the  world,  or  the  opinions  of  men  1  Certainly 
not.  We  are  not  to  calculate  upon  the  good  or  the  evil,  that 
may  ensue  by  our  adherence  to  the  principles  of  right — nor 
what  sacrifices  must  be  made — nor  what  privations  may  have 
to  be  endured — it  is  for  God's  creatures  to  act  as  he  has  been 
pleased  to  designate,  labouring  diligently  in  his  service,  and 
trusting  to  him  to  apportion  the  increase. 


HARRIET  ROGERS. 

How  very  beautiful  !  I  exclaimed  mentally. 

I  was  in  a  village  house  of  worship,  and  the  above  observa- 
tion was  excited  by  a  female  who  sat  opposite  to  me.  She  was 
not  very  young — she  might  have  been  twenty-eight,  or  possibly 
thirty  years ;  but  her  features  were  finely  regular,  and  her 
complexion  still  wore  an  undiminished  brilliancy.  It  must 
have  been  undiminished  in  its  beauty,  for  it  was  one  of  the 
most  perfect  whiteness  I  have  ever  seen,  smooth  and  polished 
— more  like  a  sheet  of  hot-pressed  letter-paper  than  any  thing 
else  I  can  think  of — and  with  a  tinge  of  carmine  scarcely  deep- 
er than  that  of  the  most  delicate  petal  of  the  damask  rose. 
In  common  with  many  others,  she  had  laid  aside  her  bonnet 
on  account  of  the  excessive  heat  of  the  weather,  and  her  dark 
hair,  arranged  with  the  utmost  simplicity  beneath  a  plain  gauze 
cap,  contrasted  beautifully  with  the  fine  intellectual  forehead 
over  which  it  was  parted.  Her  lip  had  probably  once  been  red- 
der than  it  was  at  present,  and  past  hours  might  have  seen  a 
more  frequent  flush  of  laughing  sunlight  upon  her  cheek,  for 
now  the  long  fringes  of  her  eye  bent  over  it  with  a  continual 
pensiveness.  For  that  eye — think  of  all  the  descriptions  you 
have  ever  read  in  poetry  of  the  eye  of  woman — of  its  veined 


36  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

lid,  with  the  long  drooping  curled  lash — its  expressive  diamond 
light — its  melting  liquid  lustre — and  its  pencilled,  arched,  inde- 
scribable brow — and  separate  whatever  may  seem  to  you  most 
beautiful,  to  attach  to  the  idea  of  a  large  melancholy  hazel  eye. 

It  was  this  subdued  sadness,  mingled  too  as  it  was  with  so 
much  sweetness  of  expression,  such  perfect  unrepiningness, 
that  interested  me  far  more  than  I  should  otherwise  have  been. 
Even  the  gladness  of  the  lovely  faces  that  sometimes  flit  around 
me  like  scattered  sunshine,  frequently  awakens  only  a  feeling 
of  pensiveness  that  it  should  be  so  little  abiding — but  a  counte- 
nance like  hers,  over  which  the  world's  sorrow  had  already 
flung  a  veil  of  spirituality — how  could  I  pass  it  by  unnoticed  ? 

By  her  sat  a  little  urchin  as  unlike  her  as  possible.  Not  in 
feature,  for  in  that  there  was  some  trifling  resemblance — but 
in  her  whole  manner  and  character.  I  never  saw  such  an 
expression  of  untameable  joy,  as  was  exhibited  in  the  face  of 
that  child  ;  it  seemed  blended  with  the  very  existence  of  the 
light-hearted  creature ;  and  though  it  was  now  subdued  into 
comparative  seriousness,  the  lashes  of  her  dark  blue  eyes  were 
occasionally  lifted  with  an  animated  glance  that  actually  seem- 
ed to  emit  flashes  of  light.  You  could  scarcely  look  on  her 
without  a  feeling  of  gladness — yet  once,  when  she  looked  up 
suddenly,  while  her  mother's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  in  sad 
tenderness,  the  smile  for  a  moment  entirely  forsook  her  lip,  and 
I  saw  a  large  tear  gathering  over  her  eye-lashes. 

After  the  worship  was  concluded,  I  enquired  the  history  of 
that  woman.  They  told  me  she  was  one  to  whom  the  Angel 
of  Grief  had  ministered — but  that  I  already  knew — and  that 
she  had  drunk  deeply  of  the  bitterness  of  his  vial. 

She  had  wedded  in  her  bright  youth,  with  a  high  hope  that 
life  should  be  to  her  a  long  sunny  dream  of  happiness.  But 
she  had  leaned  her  heart  upon  a  broken  reed,  and  it  gave  way 
and  crushed  her.  They  told  rne  there  were  three  graves  out 
in  their  grassy  burial  place,  over  which  hot  tears  had  fallen, 
when  were  laid  there  the  perished  blossoms  of  her  heart — and 
the  strong  stem,  round  which  its  tendrils  had  entwined  them- 
selves— perhaps  too  fondly. 

I  told  you  that  she  had  wedded  with  high  hopes  ; — but  they 
had  been  crushed  by  another  hand  than  that  of  death.  He 
came  by  only  to  finish  the  ruin.  Long  before  Harriet  Rogers 
became  a  widow,  had  her  husband  ceased  to  be  worthy  of  her. 


HARRIET  ROGERS. — SLAVERY.  37 

Yet  intemperate  and  unprincipled  as  he  became,  she  still  clung 
to  him,  in  the  steadfastness  of  her  woman's  heart,  with  a  depth 
of  holy  affection  that  no  unkindness  could  subdue,  with  a  hope 
of  his  being  yet  restored  to  virtue,  that  no  unworthiness  could 
crush. 

But  death,  a  fearful  unprepared^for  doom,  came  suddenly 
upon  him ;  and  then  she  felt  that  all  the  tears  she  had  shed 
over  the  pure  beings  whom  she  had  already  laid  to  rest,  were 
happiness — ay  bliss — to  the  few  scalding  drops  that  fell  as  if 
they  were  wrung  one  by  one  from  her  seared  heart,  slowly 
and  separately  upon  his  still  brow ; — noble  and  beautiful  as  it 
was,  and  yet  so  stricken  with  the  shame  of  guilt ! — about  to 
go  down  to  the  grave  with  such  a  deep  cloud  forever  resting 
upon  it !  And  then  the  thoughts  of  what  was  beyond  those 
gloomy  portals ! — she  could  not  dwell  upon  it,  and  with  a 
half-uttered  groan,  she  covered  up  her  face,  and  they  bore  her 
away  insensible. 

She  did  not  see  him  again ;  but  day  by  day  there  grew  to 
be  less  of  agony  in  her  prayers,  and  as  the  darkness  passed 
gradually  away  from  her  heart,  she  mingled  once  more,  as  she 
had  been  wont  to  do,  among  her  beloved  friends.  The  pure 
piety  of  her  spirit,  refined  and  deepened  by  suffering,  dared 
not  waste  itself  in  gloomy  repinings : — but,  though  long  years 
had  passed  away,  she  never  could  forget. 

And  I  wondered  no  more  at  the  melancholy  written  upon 
her  beautiful  countenance. 


SLAVERY. 

THE  more  we  reflect  upon  this  subject,  the  more  strange 
does  it  appear,  that  it  can  be  tolerated  in  a  Christian  country — 
among  a  people,  too,  refined  and  enlightened  as  we  proudly 
claim  to  be,  whose  laws  stoop  even  to  the  protection  of  the  brute 
creation.  Yet  even  in  the  very  face  of  our  republican  courts, 
are  men  publicly  sold  and  purchased  by  their  fellow-men,  in 
the  open  market-places,  and  in  the  broad  gaze  of  the  pure  day- 
light;  while  the  hot  gush  of  shame,  that  should  blind  and^ suf- 
focate them  with  the  consciousness  of  ignominy,  is  totally  un- 
felt.  Woman,  too-—"  bright,  high-souled,  glorious  woman," — 
will  suffer  herself  to  be  ministered  to  by  the  hand  of  slavery 


38  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

can  behold  herself  surrounded  by  miserable  and  degraded  be- 
ings,  yet  make  no  effort  to  snatch  them  from  the  pit  into  which 
they  have  been  thrust. 

The  patriotism  of  the  American  ladies  has  been  lauded  to 
the  skies,  for  having  refused  the  use  of  tea  during  the  revolu- 
tionary contest,  because  that  article  had  been  one  of  the  excit- 
ing causes  of  the  quarrel.  It  is  probable  that  under  similar 
circumstances,  most  of  them,  at  the  present  day,  would  act 
after  the  same  manner.  And  do  not  the  calls  of  patriotism,  as 
well  as  of  religion,  still  more  imperatively  urge  to  every  exer- 
tion that  may  tend  to  remove  their  country  from  the  darkness 
of  crime  and  infamy  ?  Yet  they,  who,  amid  the  gloom  of 
former  years,  unhesitatingly  bore  privations  and  sacrifices,  that 
they  might  strengthen  the  hands  of  those,  who,  on  the  field  of 
warfare,  were  contending  for  liberty,  now  shrink  not  from  the 
luxuries  which  have  been  wrung  with  heart-sickening  inhu- 
manity from  the  hands  of  the  helpless  and  oppressed.  If  there 
were  no  other  cause  for  hate,  to  the  system  of  slavery,  its 
mean  selfishness  should  alone  be  sufficient  to  raise  every  voice 
in  opprobrium  against  it.  But  when  we  reflect,  that  disgusting 
and  dishonourable  as  it  is,  this  is  one  of  the  fairest  traits  in  its 
character,  it  is  really  surprising  how  the  gentle  and  the  good 
can  be  so  little  offended  by  its  vileness.  We  should  imagine 
that  the  tears  of  contrition  for  the  past,  could  be  dried  only  by 
the  high  resolve  of  instant  reformation,  and  the  nobler  and  bet- 
ter conduct  of  future  life.  But,  alas !  how  few  are  there,  who, 
like  a  Minge,  a  Smith,  or  a  Rid^ely,  have  the  nobility  of  spirit, 
that  can  refuse  to  weigh  the  claims  of  interest  against  those  of 
right.  Yet  the  cause  of  emancipation  is  a  holy  one,  and  how- 
ever tardy  may  be  its  progress,  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  it 
will  eventually  triumph.  With  reference  to  this  subject,  we 
have  liberty  to  quote  the  encouraging  sentiments  of  one  of  our 
own  sex,  whose  interest  in  the  subject  is  probably  inferior  to 
none,  and  who  has  looked  with  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  signs 
of  the  times. 

"All  reformations  are  slow  (or  gradual)  in  proportion  to  the 
abuse  designed  to  be  removed ;  hence  from  all  necessity,  this 
must  be  slow,  as  it  exceeds  in  magnitude  all  others  on  the  ha- 
bitable globe ;  for  what  degradation,  either  of  body  or  mind, 
can  be  named,  which  is  not  comprehended  in  this  greatest  of 
abominations,  African  slavery?  the  demoralizing  effects  of 


FASHION    SPECTACLES.  39 

which,  not  less  to  the  master  than  to  the  slave,  exceeds  all 
others  in  the  known  world ;  for  evidence  of  which,  we  need 
only  refer  to  the  state  of  mankind,  in  those  parts  of  the  earth 
cursed  by  its  existence. 

"  But  a  good  work  is  begun,  and  I  believe  a  change  in  public 
opinion  is  taking  place  ;  and  if  we  can  but  have  patience  with 
dull,  heedless,  and  inattentive  lukewarm  professors,  I  doubt  not 
many  of  us  wilt  see  a  brighter  day.  Much  anxiety,  labour, 
and  toil,  must  first  be  endured;  but  what  is  this,  in  comparison 
to  restoring  to  the  most  inestimable  rights  of  man,  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  our  fellow-beings  ?" 


FASHION  SPECTACLES. 

HE  was  a  strange  looking  old  man,  and  he  bewildered  me 
exceedingly.  Whether  he  belonged  to  the  rank  of  magicians, 
sprites,  or  genii,  I  was  unable  to  determine ;  but  that  he  was 
something  out  of  the  common  way,  I  was  quite  certain.  Once 
I  had  half  made  up  my  mind,  that  it  was  the  famous  old  wizard, 
Michael  Scott — for  he  had  a  high  pointed  cap,  and  a  long  beard 
hanging  down  upon  his  breast,  and  trimmed  into  a  peak :  then 
I  tried  to  move,  so  as  to  place  him  between  myself  and  the 
candle,  that  I  might  discover  whether,  like  Ossian's  ghost-heroes, 
the  light  would  «*  twinkle  dimly  through  his  form," — but  with 
that  inability  for  motion,  which  we  so  frequently  feel  in  dreams, 
I  remained  fastened  to  my  seat,  and  my  doubts  were  totally 
insolvable.  But  whatever  he  might  be,  his  appearance  was 
certainly  very  queer. 

«'  What  are  you  doing  ?"  said  the  strange  old  man. 

"  I  am  altering  this  dress,"  answered  I ;  "  it  is  old  fashioned." 

"  When  was  it  made  ?" 

"Last  month." 

"  Put  on  these  spectacles,"  said  the  strange  old  man. 

I  stammered  a  little,  for  the  proposition  startled  me:  "I 
thank  you.  But  I  could  do  nothing  with  them. — I  can  see  to 
rip  this  seam  perfectly  well,  I  assure  you." 

"  Put  them  on,  I  tell  you  !"  exclaimed  he,  with  such  a  terri- 
ble frown,  that  they  were  over  my  eyes  almost  before  I  was 
aware. 

The  scene  was  all  changed  before  me.     I  was  in  a  mighty 


40  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

temple,  where  thousands  of  my  own  sex  were  gathered  to  wor- 
ship the  presiding  divinity.  The  rarest  productions  of  the  loom, 
of  various  kinds,  but  of  the  finest  texture,  and  the  choicest  co- 
lours, were  fantastically  twisted  around  each  other,  so  as  to 
form  a  kind  of  throne,  on  which  she  was  seated.  On  the  altar 
before  her,  lay  heaps  of  jewelry,  strings  of  pearl,  diamonds, 
and  other  precious  stones,  and  all  manner  of  personal  orna- 
ments, piled  up  in  glittering  confusion.  Envoys  from  different 
quarters  of  the  globe,  were  continually  bringing  their  offerings 
to  her  feet,  and  numberless  females,  who  officiated  as  priestesses, 
were  employed  about  her  person,  altering  its  decorations,  and 
adorning  her  in  a  different  manner.  But  I  observed  that  her 
dress  had  no  sooner  been  adjusted  according  to  her  directions, 
than  she  became  dissatisfied  with  it,  and  ordered  some  other 
form  substituted  for  that  which  she  had  but  the  instant  before 
applauded. 

These  various  changes  were  instantly  imitated  by  her  votaries, 
whose  manner  of  worship  seemed  to  be  by  thus  humouring  her 
caprice.  Those  who  were  too  far  distant  to  discover  the  man- 
ner of  the  goddess  herself,  copied,  as  well  as  they  were  able, 
that  of  the  most  favoured  devotees ;  so  that  the  whole  place 
seemed  to  be  continually  in  motion. 

"This  is  the  Temple  of  Fashion"  said  my  companion; 
"  come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you  from  whose  hands  are 
gathered  the  oblations  which  crowd  her  altar." 

He  conducted  me  to  a  window  at  one  side  of  the  edifice,  and 
I  looked  out  upon  a  widely  diversified  scene.  Far  off  in  the 
distance,  I  could  catch  a  shadowy  glance  of  mines,  where  men 
were  wearing  out  their  lives  in  search  of  the  glittering  treasures 
of  the  earth.  In  another  quarter,  groups  of  people, — men, 
women,  and  children — were  embracing  each  other,  with  tears 
and  bitter  lamentations,  till  others,  who  stood  by,  forcibly  sepa- 
rated them  from  each  other,  leaving  some  to  weep  in  lonely 
desolation,  and  bearing  others  away  to  a  distant  market-place, 
where  they  were  publicly  sold.  Still  I  watched  their  destina- 
tion, as  they  were  borne  away  by  their  future  masters.  They 
were  placed  among  a  people  who  were  accounted  wise  and  vir- 
tuous; they  were  surrounded  by  cultivation  and  refinement, 
yet  they  were  ignorant  and  degraded,  for  the  book  of  know- 
ledge was  forbidden  to  be  unfolded  before  them.  They  were 
clriven  unwillingly  to  toil,  day  after  day,  and  the  fruits  of  their 


FASHION    SPECTACLES.  41 

labour  were  claimed  by  others.  Those  to  whom  my  attention 
was  principally  directed,  were  employed  in  the  care  and  culti- 
vation of  a  species  of  tree,  from  whose  pods,  when  ripe,  they 
gathered  a  white,  downy  substance,  which  was  collected  into 
large  quantities,  and  carried  away  into  a  place  where  hundreds 
of  beings — many  of  them  squalid,  debased,  and  miserable — 
were  employed  throughout  their  whole  lives,  in  causing  it  to 
undergo  various  operations,  till  it  came  from  their  hands  trans- 
formed into  fabrics  of  exquisite  delicacy  and  beauty,  meet  to 
be  employed  in  forming  the  garments  of  Fashion.  Others 
passed  their  days  in  watching  the  life  and  death  of  successive 
races  of  a  certain  species  of  insect,  that  from  its  shroud  they 
might  form  her  festival  robes.  Men  dared  the  torrid  sunbeams, 
that  they  might  minister  to  her  fancied  wants,  or  gathered  the 
spoils  of  the  cold  regions  of  the  north,  that  her  votaries  might 
lay  them  at  her  footstool. 

Neither  was  it  over  dress  only,  that  she  exercised  so  despotic 
a  sway.  Manners,  opinions,  and  taste,  were  all  regulated  ac- 
cording to  her  will.  Nay,  so  enthusiastically  infatuated  were 
some  of  her  worshippers,  that  they  would  unhesitatingly  sacrifice 
comfort,  health,  moral  principle,  and  the  holiest  affections  of 
the  heart,  in  obedience  to  her  dictates. 

But  without,  in  front  of  the  temple,  methought  I  heard  the 
clamour  of  many  voices,  uttering  murmurs  and  revilings  against 
the  witcheries  of  the  tyrant,  and  the  obsequious  compliance 
with  which  her  orders  were  attended  to.  These  were  fathers 
and  husbands,  who  had  been  ruined,  both  in  happiness  and 
wealth,  by  the  folly  and  extravagance  of  their  relatives.  The 
voice  of  lamentation,  mingled  also  with  that  of  execrations  for 
some  who  had  stood  high  among  her  list  of  favourites,  after 
having  expended  their  whole  fortune  in  her  service,  were  now 
cast  out  destitute,  to  wail  their  former  devotion  to  her  will,  or 
for  their  lost  station,  now  occupied  by  more  fortunate  compe- 
titors. 

I  was  about  to  give  utterance  to  some  very  wise  and  moral 
reflections,  upon  the  folly  of  the  assembled  multitude,  when  the 
strange  old  man,  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  dashed 
the  spectacles  violently  from  my  eyes,  and  the  whole  scene 
vanished.  The  old  man,  too,  had  vanished — cap,  beard,  and 
all — I  began  to  be  in  doubt  of  my  own  substantiality !  Yet 
there  I  was,  broad  awake,  too,  by  this  time,  with  my  disorgan- 

D2 


42  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    3IORAL    ESSAYS. 

ized  dress  lying  upon  my  lap. — The  extricated  sleeve  had  fallen 
on  the  hearth  during  my  dream,  and  was  almost  totally  con- 
sumed. Fortunately,  however,  the  fashion  had  changed  while 
I  was  asleep,  and  the  quantity  of  stuff  which  had  been  required 
for  the  formation  of  one  sleeve,  was  now  amply  sufficient  for 
both. 


IGNORANCE. 

ONE  of  the  worst  features  in  the  character  of  slavery,  is  the 
perpetual  darkness  which  it  so  assiduously  gathers  round  the 
minds  of  its  victims.  Knowledge  and  rebellion  appear  to  be 
almost  synonymous  terms  in  the  mind  of  the  slaveholder,  or  at 
least  the  idea  of  the  latter  appears  to  succeed  that  of  the  for- 
mer, almost  as  regularly  as  though  it  were  thus  properly  de- 
nned. Then,  too,  it  affords  such  a  convenient  avenue  to 
escape  from  the  reproaches  of  others,  or  of  their  own  con- 
sciences, from  the  degrading  ignorance  of  their  negroes  to  plead 
the  danger  that  would  result  from  their  instruction.  But  if 
mention  is  made  of  the  propriety  of  emancipating  the  slaves  in 
their  present  condition,  then  instantly  their  masters  are  alarmed 
at  the  consequences  that  they  are  pleased  to  think  must  neces- 
sarily ensue,  if  so  many  uneducated  and  degraded  beings  were, 
as  they  term  it,  "  let  loose  upon  society,"  Thus,  although  they 
acknowledge  that  slavery  is  an  evil,  and  very  willingly  join  in 
lamentations  for  its  existence,  they  cannot  consent  that  it  should 
be  abolished,  until  their  slaves  are  fitted  for  emancipation  by  a 
preparatory  education,  and  still,  on  account  of  a  just  regard  to 
their  own  safety,  cannot  suffer  them  to  receive  the  blessings 
of  instruction  while  they  continue  in  a  state  of  bondage.  This, 
we  believe,  is  nearly  the  sum  of  much  of  the  reasoning  employed 
by  the  southern  planters  with  regard  to  the  subject  in  ques- 
tion. We  are  willing  to  make  all  due  allowances  for  the  effects 
of  long  continued  habits  and  prejudices ;  we  feel  more  disposed 
to  compassionate  than  to  blame— but  we  cannot  acknowledge 
that  any  arguments  are  reasonable,  which  have  for  their  object 
the  support  of  injustice.  Yet  even  if  elevating  and  refining 
their  minds  by  some  degree  of  literary  attainments,  might  have 
some  tendency  to  render  the  weight  of  their  fetters  a  less  en- 
durable burden,  surely,  not  the  least  shadow  of  such  danger 


IGNORANCE. LETTERS  ON  SLAVERY.         43 

could  be  apprehended  from  their  instruction  in  morality  and 
religion.  Oh  !  let  all  those  of  our  own  sex,  with  whom  the 
power  may  lie,  contribute  their  utmost  to  the  advancement  of 
the  eternal  welfare  of  those  immortal  beings,  over  whom  for- 
tune has  given  them  the  temporal  control.  Will  they  not  ex- 
tend the  hand  of  Christian  and  sisterly  fellowship  to  those,  who, 
females  though  they  be,  are  debarred  from  so  many  of  the 
dearest  privileges  of  the  sex  ?  Will  they  not  plead  with  those 
over  whose  minds  they  may  exercise  a  pure  and  rightful  influ- 
ence, to  rescue  the  female  slave  from  her  present  state  of  de- 
gradation 1  Certainly,  we  may  hope  that  they  will  do  so,  unless 
the  poisonous  properties  of  slavery  are  such  as  to  deaden  the 
vital  principle  of  every  good  thing  within  the  reach  of  its 
effects. 


LETTERS  ON  SLAVERY. 
No,  I. 

To  the  Ladies  of  Baltimore. 

IN  thus  addressing  you  upon  the  subject  of  American  Sla- 
very, we  cannot  hope  to  offer  to  your  notice  much  newness  or 
brilliancy  of  argument  or  reasoning — much  original  informa- 
tion— or  many  unappropriated  sentiments; — the  wrongs  of  the 
Negroes,  and  the  injustice  of  their  oppressors,  have  been  long 
since  pourtrayed  by  the  thrilling  lip  of  eloquence — and  the 
means  for  their  emancipation,  to  which  we  shall  invite  your 
attention,  have  been  already  pointed  out.  We  can,  therefore, 
do  but  little  more  than  reiterate  what  has  been  said  by  others. 
Yet  notwithstanding  we  have  confessed  thus  much,  we  are  still 
induced  to  address  you ;  in  the  hope  that  an  appeal  directed 
particularly  to  yourselves,  condensing  what  we  consider  the 
most  important  arguments,  and  presenting  the  subject  in  such 
a  point  of  view  as  we  conceive  may  be  most  interesting  to  you, 
may,  perhaps,  succeed  in  arresting  your  attention,  and  bending 
an  hour  of  your  serious  thought  upon  the  miserable  beings  by 
whom  you  are  surrounded. 

We  need  not  waste  words  in  attempting  to  inspire  you  with 
a  conviction  of  the  criminality  of  the  slave  system.  It  must 
certainly  be,  to  every  one  of  you,  self-evident !  Both  its  bar- 
barity and  iniquity  have  been  long  since  acknowledged,  and 


44  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL   ESSAYS. 

that  too,  in  an  age  which  we  are  apt  to  consider  as  far  less  en- 
lightened than  this.  Until  the  minds  of  Christians  were  blinded 
by  a  participation  in  this  evil,  an  abhorrence  of  the  idea  of 
enslaving  their  fellow-creatures  was  a  necessary  consequence 
of  its  suggestion. — A  late  writer  upon  this  subject,  has  the  fol- 
lowing passage,  with  respect  to  the  commencement  of  African 
Slavery : 

"  The  infamy  of  being  the  first  who  brought  the  miserable 
sons  of  Africa  as  slaves  from  their  native  soil,  attaches  itself 
to  the  Portuguese,  who,  as  early  as  1481,  built  a  castle  on  the 
Gold  coast,  and  from  thence  ravaged  the  country,  and  carried 
off  the  inhabitants  to  Portugal,  where  they  were  sold  into 
bondage.  In  1503,  slaves  were  first  taken  from  the  Portuguese 
settlements  in  Africa  to  the  Spanish  possessions  in  America ; 
and  from  that  time  to  1511,  large  numbers  were  exported  to 
the  colonies  of  Spain,  by  permission  of  King  Ferdinand  V. 
After  his  death,  a  proposal  was  made  to  the  regent  of  Spain, 
Cardinal  Ximenes,  by  Las  Casas,  Bishop  of  Chiapa,  to  establish 
a  regular  commerce  in  African  slaves,  under  the  plausible  and 
well-intentioned,  but  fallacious  pretext  of  substituting  their 
labour  in  the  colonies  for  that  of  the  native  Indians,  who  were 
rapidly  becoming  exterminated  by  the  severity  of  their  labour, 
and  the  cruel  treatment  of  their  Spanish  masters.  To  the  im- 
mortal honour  of  Cardinal  Ximenes,  he  rejected  the  proposition 
on  the  ground  of  the  iniquity  of  slavery  itself  in  the  abstract, 
and  also,  the  great  injustice  of  making  slaves  of  one  nation, 
for  the  liberation  of  another.  The  Cardinal  appears,  there- 
fore, to  have  been  the  first  avowed  opponent  of  this  traffic  in 
men. 

"  After  the  death  of  this  prelate,  the  Emperor,  Charles  V. 
in  1517,  encouraged  the  slave-trade,  and  granted  letters  patent 
for  carrying  it  on ;  but  he  lived  to  see  his  error,  and  most 
nobly  renounced  it,  for  he  ordered,  and  had  executed,  a  com- 
plete manumission  of  all  African  slaves  in  his  American  do- 
minions. About  this  time,  Pope  Leo  X.  gave  to  the  world  this 
noble  declaration :  '  That  not  only  the  Christian  religion,  but 
nature,  herself,  cried  out  against  a  state  of  slavery!'  In  the 
year  1562,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  the  English  first  stained 
their  hands  with  the  negro  traffic ;  Captain,  afterwards  Sir  J. 
Hawkins,  made  a  descent  on  the  African  coast,  and  carried  away 
a  number  of  the  natives,  whom  he  sold  to  the  Spaniards  in 


LETTERS    ON    SLAVERY.  45 

Hispaniola  ;  and,  although  censured  by  the  Queen,  it  appears 
that  he  still  continued  to  prosecute  the  trade.  The  French 
commenced  this  business  about  the  same  time,  although  Louis 
XIII.  gave  the  royal  sanction  with  reluctance,  and  only  when 
soothed  by  the  delusive  pretext  of  converting  the  Africans  to 
Christianity." 

The  importation  of  slaves  into  the  British  colonies  was 
strongly  opposed  by  many  of  them,  and  in  particular  by  some 
of  those  who  are  now  most  tenacious  of  the  evil  thus  entailed 
upon  them.  Can  any  circumstances  have  occurred  since  then, 
to  render  slavery  more  humane  or  more  christian-like  in  its 
character  1  We  think  not.  Every  succeeding  year  that  has 
been  suffered  to  elapse  without  an  effort  to  remove  this  slain, 
has  but  served,  in  an  increasing  ratio,  to  magnify  the  iniquity 
of  the  practice.  Every  year — nay,  every  month,  every  day, 
that  still  passes  idly  by,  must  continue  to  deepen  the  enormity 
of  our  country's  guilt. 

Can  then  the  female  sex,  who  form  so  large  a  part  of  her 
population,  be  free  from  the  pollution  of  this  sin?  Had  they 
all  used  properly  their  influence  as  Christian  women,  in  oppo- 
sition to  this  crime,  would  it  till  this  day  have  darkened  the 
volumes  of  our  country's  history  ?  We  have  no  hesitation  in, 
saying  that  it  would  not,  nor  in  asserting  that  they  have  yet  a 
duty  to  perform  for  the  advancement  of  its  abolition. 


LETTERS  ON  SLAVERY. 
No.  II. 


To  the  Ladies  of  Baltimore, 

WE  have  already  said,  that  we  have  nothing  new  to  commu- 
nicate on  the  subject  of  slavery.  It  has  been  long  since  pro- 
nounced iniquitous  and  inhuman.  The  wise  and  good  have, 
from  its  very  commencement,  poured  out  denunciations  upon  its 
execrable  tyranny.  What  is  wanted,  therefore,  is  not  so  much 
an  acknowledgement  of  its  wickedness,  as  a  general  desire  for 
its  immediate  extinction,  and  an  individual  resolution  to  pro- 
mote that  end.  Are  there  any  among  you,  who  do  not  wish 
that  its  abolition  was  already  accomplished  throughout  all  the 
borders  of  our  land?  Is  there  one  of  you,  over  whose  thoughts 


46  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

it  has  not  come  like  a  chilling  damp,  in  her  moments  of  patri- 
otic enthusiasm  ?  Yet  at  the  very  moment  you  acknowledge 
slavery,  in  the  aggregate,  to  be  sinful,  there  are,  perhaps, 
slaves  employed  in  some  of  your  own  households,  or  those  of 
your  dearest  friends,  without  your  ever  "  laying  it  to  heart," 
that  you  or  they  are  partaking  in  the  unrighteousness  you 
reprobate.  It  is  true  that  you  have  the  ready  plea  of  custom 
and  the  laws  of  the  state,  but  the  very  arguments  that  are 
used  for  its  palliation,  tend  only  to  prove  the  whole  system 
radically  wrong.  We  do  not  impute  to  you  any  other  than 
gentle  and  humane  treatment  of  those  under  your  charge — 
we  do  not  allude  reproachfully  to  the  circumstance  of  your 
possessing  them.  You  have  grown  up  with  this  system  of 
things  tolerated  everywhere  around  you,  till  it  appears  to  you 
natural,  and  you  almost  forget  the  possibility  of  its  being 
otherwise.  You  have  so  long  seen  it  sanctioned  by  the 
practice  of  those  whom  you  have  been  accustomed  to  esteem 
and  reverence,  that  you  scarcely  look  upon  it  as  requiring  in- 
dividual disapprobation ;  though  were  you  questioned  on  the 
subject,  you  would  probably  express  a  wish  that  it  had  never 
been  introduced  into  our  country.  There  are  others  among 
you,  who  would  not  so  far  tolerate  the  practice  of  slavery,  as 
to  hold  negroes  in  their  own  possession,  and  who  probably 
consider,  that  by  this  passive  act,  they  perform  all  the  duty 
that  is  required  of  them  in  this  respect.  But  what  difference 
can  there  be,  whether  the  luxuries  with  which  their  tables  are 
spread,  or  the  tasteful  garb  that  arrays  their  forms,  be  the  pro- 
ductions of  slaves  in  the  employ  of  another  or  themselves  ? 
We  beseech  all  those  whom  we  are  addressing,  to  reason  with 
themselves  calmly  upon  this  subject.  Think  of  slavery  as  it 
exists  in  other  states  of  the  union — think  of  the  domestic 
slave-trade,  with  all  its  horrors — wives  and  husbands  forcibly 
torn  asunder — parents  parted  from  their  children — friend  from 
friend,  brother  from  sister,— never  again  to  meet  on  the  earth, 
these  are  not  circumstances  of  singular  or  rare  occurrence. 
"  New  Orleans  is  the  complete  mart  of  the  domestic  slave- 
trade,  and  the  Mississippi  is  becoming  a  common  highway  for 
this  traffic."  To  what  scenes  of  heart-rending  misery  is  not  a 
clue  given  by  these  few  words  !  Shrink  not  for  once  from  their 
contemplation,  we  conjure  you  !  Let  imagination  call  up  before 
you  the  glazed  eye  of  despair — let  the  fearful  shrieks  of  hearts 


LETTERS    ON    SLAVERY.  47 

'that  are  bursting  with  their  insupportable  agony,  ring  in  your 
ears, — place  yourselves  for  a  moment  in  the  situation  of  these 
miserable  victims — fancy  yourselves,  after  the  delirious  wild- 
ness  of  that  separation  had  past,  immured  in  the  suffocating 
hold  of  the  ship,  gasping  in  vain  for  one  breath  of  the  pure 
air  of  heaven,  with  an  indistinct  weight  of  misery  pressing  on 
your  hot  brain,  and  your  hearts  crushed  and  stupified  with 
their  wretchedness,  forgetting  the  language  of  hope  forever ! 
Oh  !  would  you  not  entreat  to  be  preserved  from  such  a  doom, 
with  far  more  earnestness  than  you  would  petition  for  life 
itself!  And  surely,  those  who  are  hourly  liable  to  be  the  vic- 
tims of  so  much  suffering,  will  not  plead  in  vain  for  your 
compassion. 


LETTERS  ON  SLAVERY 
No.  III. 


To  the  Ladies  of  Baltimore. 

ONCE  more,  for  a  few  moments,  we  solicit  your  attention. 
We  need  not  attempt  any  further  to  excite  your  compassion  for 
the  slave,  nor  horror  for  the  system  which  is  the  source  of  his 
calamities.  If  a  knowledge  of  the  sufferings  of  the  one,  and 
the  iniquity  of  the  other,  has  not  been  sufficient  to  awaken 
these  feelings,  and  your  own  benevolent  natures  have  failed  to 
prompt  your  ready  sympathy,  we  can  have  but  little  hope  of 
arousing  the  dormant  principle.  But  we  think  not  that  your 
heart-pulses  beat  so  languid  a  response  to  the  voice  of  misery  ; 
we  know  that  there  are  at  least  some  among  you,  who  have 
long  felt  upon  this  subject,  as  it  best  becomes  them  to  feel — 
who  look  with  anxiety  and  regret  on  the  broad  cloud  that  flings 
its  deep  shadow  over  their  country — and  reflect  with  pain  and 
humiliation  on  the  degradation  which  she  still  continues  to  heap 
upon  so  many  of  her  children.  We  would  converse  with 
you,  then,  on  the  means  that  may  be  most  efficient  in  alleviating 
their  condition,  and  most  successful  in  loosening  the  fetters  of 
their  bondage  ;  and  in  what  measure  your  own  power  may  be 
instrumental  in  effecting  this  purpose.  Shrink  not  back  under 
a  conviction  of  your  own  weakness — remember  that  though 
your  exertions  may  be  apparently  insufficient  to  tear  one  link 


48  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

from  the  shackles  of  human  slavery,  your  influence,  like  a  re- 
viving leaven,  will  be  silently  diffusing  a  corresponding  feeling 
over  the  minds  of  others,  and  thus,  to  speak  in  the  figurative 
language  of  the  Indian,  clearing  away  the  briars  that  now  ob- 
struct the  path  of  Emancipation.  Let  an  association  be  formed 
among  you,  having  for  its  object  the  support  of  the  free  system 
and  the  diffusion  of  your  principles.  Union  will  give  you 
activity  and  strength — it  will  enable  you  to  devise  and  carry 
into  effect  plans,  which  you  would  find  it  otherwise  impossible 
to  execute  ;  and  while  it  imparts  authority  to  the  sentiments 
you  inculcate^  will  give  a  wider  extent  to  the  sphere  of  your 
usefulness.  In  other  states  of  the  Union,  the  voice  of  woman 
has  been  already  heard  pleading  that  the  bruised  reed,  Ethiopia, 
may  not  be  utterly  broken  ;  that  the  wounds  that  have  been 
inflicted  upon  her  heart  may  be  bound  up,  and  the  tears  of  suf- 
fering may  be  wiped  away  from  her  eyes.  And  will  not  you, 
also,  stretch  forth  the  ready  hand  of  assistance,  and  strive  to 
lift  up  from  the  earth,  the  mourning  brow  of  the  trodden  and 
oppressed  one  ?  Can  you  be  insensible  to  the  bliss  of  shedding 
light  over  the  soul  that  was  in  darkness,  or  of  pouring  the  oil 
of  gladness  over  the  heads  of  them  that  were  despised  and 
afflicted  ?  No :  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  be  thus  dull 
to  the  pleasures  of  benevolence — the  warm  gush  of  your  feel- 
ings may  have  flowed  in  hidden  places,  but  its  well-spring  is 
not  the  less  deep  for  its  hitherto  silent  course.  Let  that  fountain 
now  shed  its  refreshing  streams  over  the  parched  ground  of  this 
wilderness,  and  the  blessing  of  the  Holy  One  may  cause  it  to 
become  a  fruitful  land. 

One  thing  further  we  would  forcibly  impress  upon  your 
minds — do  not  delay  the  commencement  of  this  good  work 
until  a  more  convenient  season.  Procrastination  is  highly  pre- 
judicial both  to  yourselves  and  the  objects  of  your  mercy  ;  and 
you  know  not  how  long  the  power  of  usefulness  may  be  grant- 
ed you.  Consult,  therefore,  immediately  with  each  other,  and 
with  your  own  hearts,  upon  the  duties  that  may  be  allotted 
you  to  perform,  in  removing  from  your  land  a  system  that 
is  so  crowded  with  shame  and  sinfulness  as  that  of  African 
Slavery. 


EXCUSES*  49 

EXCUSES. 

IT  is  difficult  sometimes  to  restrain  a  smile,  even  when  we 
cannot  feel  otherwise  than  grieved,  at  the  readiness  with  which 
people  will  find  arguments  to  persuade  themselves  that  they 
have  no  manner  of  concern  in  slavery,  or  part  to  act  in  its  ex- 
tinction. 

Is  the  necessity  of  opposing  it  impressed  upon  them,  they 
will  object,  that  their  own  daily  participation  in  its  fruits  ren- 
ders them  unfit  labourers  in  the  soil  of  emancipation.  This 
might  be  supposed  to  be  favourable,  as  it  leads  immediately  to 
a  discussion  of  the  advantage  of  encouraging  free  labour,  and 
the  wished-for  point  is  already  looked  upon  as  half  gained. 
But  this  is  far  from  succeeding  as  a  natural  consequence.  A 
long  array  of  arguments  respecting  its  inconvenience,  useless- 
ness,  &c.  are  set  forth  in  formidable  order,  concluding  with 
alleging  the  utter  impossibility  of  refraining  in  all  instances 
from  the  produce  of  slavery,  or  of  articles  that  proceed  either 
directly  or  indirectly  from  that  source.  This  is  acknowledged, 
but  not  without  still  pleading  for  even  a  partial  patronization 
of  the  free  system,  just  so  far  as  may  not  be  very  inconveni- 
ent ;  and  this  is  answered  with  the  opinion,  that  unless  they 
could  put  away  from  them  entirely,  every  thing  of  this  nature, 
they  do  not  consider  it  worth  while  in  any  instance  to  attempt 
doing  so.  Shall  we  hint  to  such  reasoners,  the  parable  of  the 
"  widow's  mite,"  or  shall  we  attempt  to  refute  their  arguments? 
To  do  this,  we  should  scarcely  suppose  that  any  thing  further 
was  necessary,  than  to  remind  them  of  the  dangerous  tendency 
of  such  principles,  were  we  to  suffer  ourselves  to  apply  them 
to  our  general  character  and  actions.  They  do  not  consider 
that  they  are  absolved  from  all  moral  or  religious  duties,  be- 
cause it  is  difficult  to  mould  themselves  into  absolute  perfection. 
They  do  not  think  it  useless  to  place  any  restraint  upon  their 
angry  feelings  in  a  moment  of  provocation,  because  they  may 
sometimes  be  hurried  into  an  impatient  expression  ;  nor  to 
withhold  the  relief  that  it  is  in  their  power  to  afford  to  poverty, 
because  it  is  impossible  to  supply  the  wants  of  all  to  whom  it 
is  a  source  of  suffering.  Neither  should  they  refuse  to  con- 
tribute, with  what  strength  they  may,  towards  breaking  the 
fetters  of  the  slave,  even  though  they  cannot  altogether  avoid 
partaking  of  the  fruit  of  his  extorted  labours. 

E 


50  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

There  is  another  class,  who  are  waiting  apparently  for  a 
particular  revelation  upon  the  subject — till  the  voice  of  con- 
science shall  reproach  them  for  their  passive  tolerance  of  the 
system  of  slavery,  in  language  too  plain,  and  too  painful,  to 
be  mistaken  or  resisted.  But  they  wait  not  to  be  thus  driven 
to  the  performance  of  other  duties  which  are  enjoined  by  rea- 
son and  humanity ;  and  why,  then,  should  they  wait  to  be  thus 
instructed  in  this  ?  The  voice  of  conscience  is  at  all  times  audi- 
ble, unless  we  wilfully  turn  a  dull  ear  to  her  monitions — but 
her  thunders  are  sometimes  reserved  until  it  is  too  late  for  us  to 
feel  them,  except  as  in  punishment  for  the  offences,  we  vainly 
looked  for  them  to  prevent. 


FEMALE  CHARACTER. 

IT  has  often  been  remarked,  that  in  sickness  there  is  no  hand 
like  woman's  hand,  no  heart  like  woman's  heart ;  and  there  is 
not.  A  man's  heart  may  swell  with  unutterable  sorrow,  and 
apprehension  may  rend  his  mind ;  yet  place  him  by  the  sick 
couch,  and  in  the  shadow  rather  than  the  light  of  the  sad  lamp 
that  watches  it ;  let  him  have  to  count  over  the  long  dull  hours 
of  night,  and  wait,  alone  and  sleepless,  the  struggle  of  the  gray 
dawn  in  the  chamber  of  suffering ;  let  him  be  appointed  to  this 
ministry,  even  for  the  sake  of  the  brother  of  his  heart,  or  the 
father  of  his  being,  and  his  grosser  nature,  even  where  it  is 
most  perfect,  will  tire  ;  his  eye  will  close,  and  his  spirit  grow 
impatient  of  the  dreary  task ;  and  though  love  and  anxiety 
remain  undiminished,  his  mind  will  own  to  itself  a  creeping  in 
of  irresistible  selfishness,  which,  indeed,  he  may  be  ashamed 
of,  and  struggle  to  reject,  but  which,  despite  of  his  efforts,  re- 
mains to  characterize  his  nature,  and  prove  in  one  instance,  at 
least,  his  manly  weakness.  But  see  a  mother,  a  sister,  or  a 
wife,  in  his  place.  The  woman  feels  no  weariness,  and  owns 
no  recollection  of  self.  In  silence  and  depth  of  night  she 
dwells,  not  only  passively,  but  so  far  as  the  qualified  term  ex- 
presses our  meaning,  joyously.  Her  ear  acquires  a  blind  man's 
instinct,  as  from  time  to  time  it  catches  the  slightest  stir,  or 
whisper,  or  breath  of  the  now  more  than  ever  loved  one,  who 
lies  under  the  hand  of  human  affliction*  Her  step,  as  in  obe- 


FEMALE    CHARACTER. EDUCATION    OF    SLAVES.  51 

dience  to  an  impulse  or  a  signal,  would  not  waken  an  insect ; 
if  she  speaks,  her  accents  are  a  soft  echo  of  natural  harmony, 
most  delicious  to  the  sick  man's  ear,  conveying  all  that  sound 
can  convey  of  pity,  comfort,  and  devotion ;  and  thus,  night 
after  night,  she  tends  him  like  a  creature  sent  from  a  higher 
world :  when  all  earthly  watchfulness  has  failed,  her  eye  never 
winked,  her  mind  never  palled,  her  nature,  that  at  other  times  is 
weakness,  now  gaining  a  superhuman  strength  and  magnanim- 
ity ;  herself  forgotten,  and  her  sex  alone  predominant. 


EDUCATION  OF  SLAVES. 

IN  this  age  of  intellectual  advancement,  when  the  cultivation 
of  the  mind  is  considered  an  object  of  primary  importance,  and 
such  strenuous  efforts  are  making  for  a  wider  diffusion  of  know- 
ledge through  almost  all  classes  of  society,  it  is  strange  that 
the  education  of  one  portion,  and  that  a  very  extensive  one, 
should  be  almost  totally  forgotten  or  neglected. 

Men  will  cheerfully  tear  themselves  away  from  the  delights 
of  home  and  society,  and  even  peril  their  lives  in  order  to  con- 
vey the  words  of  the  gospel  into  distant  climes,  and  implant  in 
the  bosoms  of  those  who  know  not  Christ,  a  knowledge  of  the 
divine  principles  of  Christianity.  Woman  will  resign  her  orna- 
ments, abridge  her  pleasures,  and  exert  all  her  influence  for  the 
same  purpose ;  and  yet  at  the  same  time,  almost  at  their  doors 
— nay,  in  the  very  bosoms  of  their  families,  there  are  beings 
far  more  ignorant  and  degraded  than  those  distant  ones  whom 
they  are  struggling  to  save. 

It  may  be  that  the  religious  tenets  of  the  Hindoo,  or  the 
American  Indian,  have  been  formed  in  error,  that 
M  In  the  scattering  of  the  leaves  of  life, 
His  page  was  written  more  imperfectly," 

yet  who  can  doubt  that,  according  to  their  knowledge,  many 
of  them  worship  the  God  of  their  fathers,  with  all  the  sincerity 
of  deep  devotedness,  and  that  they  possess  many  noble  and 
surprising  traits  of  character  1  But  the  slave — what  knowledge, 
— what  instruction,  religious  or  moral,  can  he  obtain,  but  that 
which  we  ourselves  see  fit  to  impart  to  him?  And  if  those  to 
whose  charge  he  is  particularly  entrusted,  suffer  his  mind,  his 


52  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

very  soul,  to  consume  away  in  the  most  debasing  ignorance, 
how  will  they  be  prepared  to  answer  the  solemn  question — 
"  Why  put  ye  not  my  money  to  the  exchangers,  that  at  my 
coming  I  might  have  received  mine  own  with  usury  ?" 

Let  not  his  moral  character  be  complained  of,  nor  his  intel- 
lectual powers  be  vilified,  until  the  experiment  of  his  instruction 
has  been  fairly  tried.  There  are  many  who  are  perfectly  con- 
vinced of  the  injustice  of  the  system  of  slavery,  and  who  would 
joyfully  aid  in  its  abolition,  did  they  not  consider  its  victims, 
by  their  long  formed  habits  and  character,  totally  unfitted  for 
liberty,  and  that  their  enfranchisement  would  be  alike  an  evil 
to  themselves,  and  to  their  former  masters.  Here  then  is  a 
field  in  which  the  influence  of  woman  may  effect  much.  Let 
it  be  her  task — the  task  of  those  who  wish  to  behold  their 
country  freed  from  a  crime,  in  which  they  are  perhaps  com- 
pelled to  participate, — to  extend  the  hand  of  compassionate 
guidance  to  those  unfortunate  beings,  who  are  rising  up  beneath 
their  care — to  instil,  with  unwearying  gentleness,  into  their 
young  minds,  the  sublime  truths  of  the  Christian  religion,  and 
impress  them  firmly  with  unfaltering  principles  of  morality — 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  the  effects  of  her  benevolence 
will  be  widely  visible.  Let  it  not  be  said  that  the  slave  popu- 
lation can  only  be  kept  in  subjection  while  in  a  state  of  igno- 
rance. Will  the  knowledge  that  his  patient  endurance  of  suffer- 
ing, is  complacently  beheld  in  heaven,  teach  the  slave  to  rebel 
against  his  earthly  master  ?  or  will  an  undoubting  faith  in  those 
promises  which  tell  that  his  ready  forgiveness  of  injuries  will 
win  for  him  the  privilege  to 

"  Wear  his  immortality  as  free, 
Beside  the  crystal  waters," 

as  those  who  have  been  his  oppressors,  dispose  him  to  forfeit 
that  happiness  by  fostering  a  spirit  of  revenge  ?  It  is  clear 
that  it  cannot !  and  it  is  sincerely  hoped  that  societies  among 
the  ladies  of  the  south,  for  the  education  of  the  youthful  slave 
population,  will,  ere  long,  hold  a  conspicuous  place  among 
those  which  have  been  already  formed  for  the  benefit  of  that 
class  of  our  citizens. 


LETTERS    TO    ISABEL.  53 

LETTERS  TO  ISABEL. 
No.  I. 

WE  have  often  spoken,  dear  Isabel,  on  the  subject  of  African 
slavery,  and  I  know  that  you  will  again  rally  me  for  recurring 
to  what  you  laughingly  term  my  "  dark-visaged  enthusiasm." 
But  I  have  extracted  from  you  a  promise  to  listen  to  me  pa- 
tiently, and  no  fears  of  your  raillery  must  deter  me  from 
attempting  to  inspire  you  with  a  portion  of  the  interest  which 
I  feel  for  the  wronged  children  of  Africa. 

What  would  I  not  give  to  know  that  you  had  entered,  heart 
and  soul,  into  their  cause !  It  surprises  me  that  you  have  not 
already  done  so — and  the  more  deeply  I  reflect  on  your  cha- 
racter, so  in  proportion  does  my  astonishment  increase. — You 
fire  at  the  mention  of  the  wrongs  of  Greece !  The  name  of 
liberty  you  cherish  like  a  sacred  thing.  I  have  seen  your 
cheek  glow  and  your  eye  flash  with  the  ardour  of  your  patri- 
otic feelings — yet  you  look  coldly  and  calmly  on  the  blot  that 
so  foully  dishonours  your  country's  escutcheon  !  Strange!  — 
good  too,  and  pious  as  you  are — gentle  and  merciful,  even  to  the 
meanest  worm  that  crawls  in  its  worthlessness  beneath  your 
tread — with  a  heart  so  alive  to  the  impulses  of  humanity,  so 
full  of  tenderness  and  high  romantic  feeling,  and  so  steadily 
calm  in  the  execution  of  its  duties — and  yet  on  this  subject — 
one  that  should  long  since  have  stirred  every  pulse  of  your 
heart,  every  sympathy  of  your  bosom — so  carelessly,  so  culpably 
indifferent ! — Think  not  that  I  am  harsh,  dear  Isabel :  even 
you  acknowledge  that  the  system  of  which  I  speak  is  a  great 
evil — you  admit  that  it  is  sinful  to  press  the  iron  yoke  of  op- 
pression upon  the  neck  of  any  of  God's  creatures :  how  much 
less  then  upon  those  whom  he  hath  created  in  his  own  image ! 
and  how  can  you  escape  the  infection  of  that  guilt,  unless  you 
openly  lift  up  your  hand  in  remonstrance  against  it  ?  It  is  not 
sufficient  that  you  are  not  an  immediate  participant  in  this  in- 
iquity. You  are  a  willing  partaker  in  its  advantages*,  you 
share  freely  in  all  the  luxuries  purchased  by  that  deep  sin,  you 
hold  out  a  bribe,  as  it  were,  for  its  perpetration  ;  yet,  because 
the  blood  of  your  brother  is  not  upon  your  own  hand,  you 
hope  to  fling  from  you  all  its  awful  responsibility  !  But  when 
the  voice  of  that  blood,  crying  out  from  the  ground,  riseth  up 
into  the  high  courts  of  Heaven,  think  you,  Isabel,  that  those 

E2 


54  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

will  be  held  guiltless,  who  have  stood  by  and  beheld  the  iron 
of  his  fetters  wearing  away  into  his  very  soul,  and  yet  have 
lifted  no  hand  to  shield,  no  voice  beseeching  mercy  for  the  suf- 
ferer] Oh,  believe  it  not!  Do  not,  I  entreat  you,  soothe 
yourself  into  a  fatal  calmness  with  this  hope  !  You  may  shut 
your  ear  now  to  the  cry  of  the  oppressed ;  you  may  persuade 
yourself  that  the  sphere  of  your  duty  extends  not  thus  far ; — 
but  when  the  last  shadowy  film  has  gathered  over  your  eye, 
and  your  spirit  hath  passed  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death — when  all  the  deceitful  mists  you  had  so  industriously 
folded  about  you  are  suddenly  scattered,  and  every  sense  is 
rendered  fearfully  acute  by  the  absence  of  the  weakness  of 
mortality — when  every  unforgiven  sin  rises  up  to  your  recol- 
lection with  a  terrible  distinctness — when,  with  all  the  intensity 
of  an  immortal  nature,  with  a  love,  to  which  the  warmest 
transports  of  earthly  enthusiasm  are  cold  and  feeble,  you  shall 
adore  the  perfection  and  the  excellence  of  the  Holy  One — do 
you  not  think  that  you  will  then  remember,  with  all  the  bitter- 
ness of  regret,  that  when  the  voice  of  the  agony  of  his  people 
went  forth  over  the  land,  you  gave  it  no  heed  1  that  when  you 
saw  them  smitten  wrongfully,  bruised  and  wounded  without  a 
cause,  you  went  carelessly  by  "  on  the  other  side,"  nor  stopped 
to  pour  over  their  wounds  the  healing  tears  of  compassion  ? 

Do  not,  my  friend,  drive  this  subject  from  your  mind,  as 
one  on  which  it  is  painful  to  reflect !  If  you  cannot  bear  even 
a  recital  of  the  sufferings  of  a  wronged  people,  how  can  they 
endure,  on  and  on,  hopelessly  and  forever  ?  You  shall  hear 
from  me  again,  ere  long — till  then,  adieu. 


LETTERS  TO  ISABEL. 
No.  II. 

DEAR  ISABEL  : — You  tell  me  that  you  think  my  language  is 
too  strong.  You  say  that  you  are  no  advocate  for  slavery,  but 
that  existing  circumstances  would  render  it  extremely  "  incon- 
venient" (that  I  believe  was  your  term)  for  you  to  become  an 
avowed  opponent  of  it  at  present ;  and  that  while  so  many,  who 
are  open  professors  of  religion,  humanity,  and  benevolence, 
rest  undisturbed  by  the  rebukes  of  conscience;  you  cannot 


LETTERS   TO    ISABEL.  55 

believe  that  it  is  demanded  of  you,  who  are  so  vastly  inferior 
in  all  these  points,  particularly  to  concern  yourself  about  the 
subject — especially  as  you  are  convinced  that  all  your  sacrifices 
would  be  of  no  avail. 

Methinks  that  "  inconvenience"  is  a  strange  term,  Isabel,  to 
associate  with  an  act  of  duty — for  it  is  as  such  I  would  press 
it  upon  your  attention  : — and  the  circumstance  of  this  strikingly 
momentous  subject  having  been  hitherto  so  long  and  so  strangely 
neglected,  is  the  very  reason  that  your  exertions  are  necessary 
now  ;  for  if  apathy  and  indolence  had  not  long  since  applied 
the  same  salve  to  the  rebukes  of  conscience,  slavery  would  ere 
this  have  ceased  to  exist. 

Then  the  conduct  of  others  can  be  no  excuse  for  you.  If  the 
path  of  duty  is  plain  before  you,  ought  you  to  wait  for  the 
example  of  others  to  incline  you  to  enter  it?  Surely  not !  you 
know,  my  friend,  that  we  are  to  be  answerable  each  for  our- 
selves ;  we  can  claim  no  forgiveness  for  neglected  duties  be- 
cause others  have  offended  in  the  same  manner.  Their  educa- 
tion, their  prejudices,  may  have  gathered  a  mist  around  their 
mental  vision,  causing  them  to  behold  objects  totally  reversed 
from  their  real  situation,  as  sailors  are  said  sometimes  to  be- 
hold a  distant  vessel  with  its  hull  apparently  elevated  iq  the  air, 
and  its  masts  resting  on  the  waters ;  and  surely  in  such  a  case 
you  would  not  join  with  the  ignorant  and  misinformed,  in  as- 
serting that  such  was  its  actual  situation  ! 

Slavery,  my  friend,  must  be  either  positively  right,  or  posi- 
tively wrong.  There  is  no  middle  point  on  which  it  may  rest. 
It  is  not  a  thing  to  be  merely  disapproved  of — coldly  warred 
with  as  a  venial  offence.  It  violates  all  the  most  essential  prin- 
ciples of  the  Christian  religion.  I  am  not  raving,  Isabel !  I 
can  appeal  to  that  volume  which  I  have  seen  wet  with  your 
own  repentant  tears,  for  the  -truth  of  my  assertions  !  If  the 
most  distinct,  the  most  sublime  declarations  of  the  gospel  are 
to  be  wholly  reversed  in  their  acceptation,  then  indeed  is  slavery 
innocent,  and  I  may  lay  down  my  pen,  and  congratulate  you 
that  our  country  is  indeed  blessed — a  shining  light  to  all  the 
inhabitants  of  the  earth  !  But  do  you,  can  you,  for  one  instant 
imagine  slavery  to  be  consistent  with  the  holy  principles  of 
Christianity  ?  And  if  it  is  not,  surely  it  is  at  our  own  peril  that 
we  trifle  with  our  knowledge  of  its  guilt !  As  to  the  availing- 
ness  of  your  exertions,  it  is  not  for  you  to  judge ;— even  if  they 


56  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

should  be  apparently  unfelt,  (which  you  cannot  tell,)  still  it  is 
as  imperatively  your  duty  to  cleanse  your  hand  from  injustice. 
Do  you  wait  for  an  express  call?  till  your  angry  conscience 
shall  press  you  down  to  the  dust  with  its  terrible  upbraiding  ? 
Alas,  my  friend,  that  hour  may  come  too  late !  If  the  case 
were  a  doubtful  one,  then  indeed  it  might  be  right  to  wait  till 
the  finger  of  God  had  expressly  taught  you ;  but  when  your 
reason  and  your  heart  tell  you  that  you  are  lending  your  sup- 
port to  a  system  of  crime  and  injustice,  can  you  expect  to  be 
absolutely  forced  into  righteousness  ?  You  know  that  I  love 
you,  dearest  Isabel — you  cannot  doubt  that :  but  even  at  the 
risk  of  alienating  your  affection,  must  I  speak  thus  plainly  ! — 
I  entreat,  I  implore,  I  conjure  you,  before  your  God,  to  com- 
mune with  your  own  heart  upon  this  subject — and  then  answer 
to  your  conscience,  whether  I  have  not  spoken  to  you  the  truth ! 


LETTERS  TO  ISABEL. 
No.  III. 

No,  my  dear  Isabel,  it  is  not  sufficient  that  you  silently  dis- 
approve of  iniquity — you  should  openly  avow  your  disappro- 
bation, that  your  example  may  be  of  benefit  to  others.  You 
speak  very  pathetically,  to  be  sure,  of  the  haunting  recollec- 
tions of  poundcakes  and  ice-creams  doomed  so  often  to  be 
passed  by  untasted  !  and  that  this  may  frequently  be  the  case, 
I  will  acknowledge.  But  what  kind  of  devotion  to  the  cause 
of  justice  and  mercy,  can  that  be,  which  would  shrink  from 
offering  a  few  sacrifices  of  inclination  and  luxury  upon  their 
altar?  If  it  were  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  give  evidence  of 
your  sincerity,  you  ought  willingly  to  submit  to  so  trifling  a 
deprivation — for  trifling  I  cannot  but  consider  it,  in  relation  to 
the  momentous  object  it  is  intended  to  support.  But  it  is  not  a 
mere  question  of  expediency,  it  is  one  of  positive  right  or  wrong 
— and  surely,  my  friend,  we  have  enough  of  thoughtless,  un- 
premeditated sins  to  answer  for,  without  deliberately  heaping 
up  condemnation  for  ourselves.  Even  if  there  were  no  other 
world,  dear  Isabel,  either  for  ourselves  or  the  unhappy  slave, 
the  hope  of  ameliorating  his  temporal  condition,  would  be  well 
worth  every  exertion,  every  sacrifice,  you  could  make.  But 
when  both  they  and  we  have  to  look  forward  to  an  eternity — 


LETTERS   TO    ISABEL.  57 

think  of  it,  Isabel — an  eternity  of  after  life — when  we  reflect 
that  there  will  come  a  fearful,  retributive  hour,  when  we  must 
answer  for  "  the  deeds  done  in  the  body" — and  think  how  we 
shall  meet  together  then,  the  oppressor  and  the  victim — the  one 
to  answer  for  a  life  devoted  to  selfish  gratification,  and  the 
other  mourning  over  the  darkness  of  his  soul — a  darkness 
which  we  have  either  formed  or  perpetuated — when  we  think 
upon  the  subject  in  this  light,  my  friend, — of  what  overwhelm- 
ing importance  does  it  not  appear ! 

Our  country  has  long  lain  in  a  state  of  slumbering  lethargy  ; 
as  if  she  had  forgotten  all  the  misery  and  the  iniquity  she  was 
fostering  within  her  bosom.  But  she  is  now  awake,  conscious 
of  the  full  enormity  of  the  evil,  and  the  guilt — and  woe  be  to 
her  if  she  cleanse  not  her  polluted  hands  !  We  have  not  the 
excuse  of  early  and  long  cherished  prejudices — or  of  ignorance 
of  the  fatal  effects  of  the  Upas  breath  of  slavery — the  proof  is 
before  us — the  guilt  and  the  consequences  have  been  thoroughly 
made  known  to  us,  and  at  our  peril  it  must  be,  if  we  refuse  to 
listen  to  the  warning  voice  of  admonition ! 


LETTERS  TO  ISABEL. 

No.  IV. 

WITH  what  pleasure  do  I  congratulate  you,  my  beloved 
friend,  upon  the  noble  resolution  you  have  adopted  !  I  fear  not, 
now,  that  you  will  shrink  from,  or  grow  weary  of,  the  sacrifices 
that  it  may  impose  upon  you  ;  or  that  the  temptations  of  luxury 
will  overpower  your  self-denial. — No,  dear  Isabel !  your  gen- 
tle spirit  will  appreciate  too  well  the  consciousness  of  having 
done  right.  Your  simple  meal  will  be  sweetened  with  the  re- 
flection that  it  is  at  least  unpolluted,  and  though  your  form  may 
perhaps  be  arrayed  less  daintily,  there  will  be  a  calm  satisfac- 
tion within  your  bosom,  which  the  amplest  gratification  of  an 
idle  vanity  could  never  afford.  Yet  although  you  have  thus 
resolved  upon  taking  an  open  stand  in  opposition  to  slavery, 
you  still  accuse  me  of  exaggeration,  and  unnecessary  warmth 
when  speaking  of  this  subject.  But  believe  me,  Isabel,  I  have 
not  done  so ; — nay,  I  had  almost  said  that  it  was  impossible  I 
could.  What,  my  friend,  can  it  be  exaggeration  to  say  that  it 


58  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

is  a  dark  and  fearful  wickedness  to  make  merchandise  of  men? 
Why,  do  we  not  hold  up  as  fit  objects  of  punishment  those  who 
are  guilty  of  purloining  the  property  of  their  fellows,  and  those 
who  would  wilfully  become  dealers  therein  ?  Then  what  terms 
of  abhorrence  can  there  be  sufficiently  strong  to  apply  to  a 
system  which  causes  so  many  thousands  to  become  robbers,  or 
the  upholders  of  those  who  are  robbers,  of  the  property  of  the 
immortal  God !  Is  not  this  trade  in  human  beings  carried  on 
in  the  very  bosom  of  our  own  country,  tearing  husbands  from 
their  wives,  parents  from  their  children,  and  trampling  down 
all  the  holy  relations  of  social  and  domestic  life,  as  if  it  were 
meant  by  the  Eternal  that  they  should  be  of  no  avail  ?  And 
can  it  be  possible  that  too  much  warmth  can  be  used  in  speak- 
ing upon  this  subject  ? 

But  even  looking  upon  slavery  in  its  mildest  form,  allowing 
the  slave  to  be  kindly  treated,  and  well  provided  for — though 
he  may  not  at  present  be  miserable,  what  warrant  has  he  for 
the  continuance  of  these  blessings?  Death,  or  pecuniary  ruin, 
may  overtake  his  master,  and  the  negro  be  transferred  at  once 
into  wretchedness.  But  how  seldom  is  it  that  their  situations 
are  thus  favourable ! 

But  we  will  speak  more  of  this  anon,  dear  Isabel.  In  the 
mean  time,  do  not  rest  satisfied  with  what  you  have  now  done. 
Exert  yourself  in  raising  up  other  supporters  to  the  cause  of 
freedom,  and  in  doing  whatever  may  be  in  your  power  to  loose 
the  shackles  of  the  oppressed. 


;v  J  LETTERS  TO  ISABEL. 

No.  V. 

I  ADVERTED  in  my  last  letter,  Isabel,  to  the  situation  of  the 
slaves  under  the  most  favourable  circumstances — subjected  to 
the  control  of  a  kind  master,  well  fed,  comfortably  clothed, 
and  not  overworked — possessed  of  a  comfortable  habitation  to 
shield  him  from  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  and  provided 
for  in  sickness,  or  old  age,  without  the  exertion  of  any  of  his 
own  energy  or  forethought.  Supposing  this  to  be  true  of  the 
whole  of  the  American  slaves — which  we  know  it  is  not — and 
allowing  the  whole  of  them  to  be  well  contented  with  their 


LETTERS   TO    ISABEL.  39 

situation,  still,  my  friend,  we  have  no  right  to  retain  them  in 
bondage  :  the  claims  of  justice,  though  not  of  humanity,  are 
violated  almost  equally  as  if  they  were  subjected  to  the  greatest 
cruelties.  And  after  all,  Isabel,  if  such  were  the  benefits  uni- 
versally shared  among  them,  what  would  be  the  amount  of  all 
these  boasted  comforts !  not  actually  equal  to  those  enjoyed  by 
the  trusty  house-dog  !  for  he  is  exempted  from  labour.  But  is 
a  mere  absence  of  the  harassing  cares  of  life,  a  sufficiency  of 
happiness  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  an  immortal  nature  ?  Is 
the  circumstance  of  refraining  from  the  exercise  of  unnecessa- 
ry cruelties  towards .  those  whom  we  have  made  our  servants 
forever,  sufficient  to  atone  for  their  mental  darkness?  And  how 
may  they  drink  at  the  well-spring  of  life  and  knowledge,  when 
we  have  sealed  it  for  only  ourselves  ?  Oh !  Isabel,  have  we 
not  a  fearful  account  to  render  for  this  iniquity  ? 

"  Woe  for  those  who  trample  o'er  a  mind — 
A  deathless  thing  !— They  know  not  what  they  do, 
Or  what  they  deal  with — Man  perchance  may  bind 
The  flower  his  step  hath  bruised ;  or  light  anew 
The  torch  he  quenches  :  or  to  music  wind 
Again  the  lyre-string  from  his  touch  that  flew — 
But  for  the  soul ! — oh !  tremble  and  beware 
To  lay  rude  hands  upon  God's  mysteries  there .'" 

The  oppression  of  the  body  may  be  endurable,  but  that  of 
the  spirit  is,  indeed,  death  ! 

You  have,  doubtless,  heard  it  asserted,  that  in  mental  capa- 
city, the  negro  is  naturally  the  inferior  of  the  white  man  ;  but 
I  will  not  insult  you  by  supposing  you,  for  an  instant,  capable 
of  giving  it  credence.  It  is  true  that  our  slaves  are  not  wise, 
nor  learned,  nor  possessed  of  high  intellectual  superiority ;  if 
they  were,  more  than  half  our  objections  to  slavery  would  be 
obviated ;  but  to  assert  that  they  are  by  nature  incapable  of 
this,  would  be  adding  sin  to  sin,  by  attempting  to  charge  the 
effects  of  our  own  iniquity  upon  the  hands  of  God  !  It  is  true, 
that  the  negroes,  who  were  originally  torn  away  from  their 
palm-tree  homes  in  Africa,  were  not  possessed  of  gifted  souls, 
and  highly  cultivated  intellects  ;  they  were,  to  use  our  own 
often  misapplied  term,  barbarians  ;  but  by  placing  and  retaining 
them  here  among  us,  we  have  become,  in  the  widest  sense  of 


60  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

the  term,  "  our  brothers'  keepers" — and  most  assuredly  will 
their  blood  be  required  at  our  hands.  Forgive  me,  dear  Isa- 
bel, if  I  weary  you,  for  how  can  I  bear  that  you  should  reflect 
with  indifference  on  a  subject  that  so  deeply  interests  me  ? 


LETTERS   TO  ISABEL, 

No.  VI. 

I  WISH  you  were  near  me,  Isabel ;  —  your  familiar  voice 
Would  come  to  me  soothingly,  and  I  am  sick  at  heart  with  the 
horrors  that  perpetually  unfold  themselves  as  I  look  upon  this 
system  of  wickedness.  Did  you  read  the  last  No.  of  the 
"  Genius  of  Universal  Emancipation  1" — "  Three  thousand 
wretches  immured  within  the  hold  of  a  single  ship  !"  Have  you 
never  shuddered  over  a  description  of  the  horrors  of  the  Black 
Hole  at  Calcutta  ?  but  what  were  they,  to  what  must  have  been 
endured  by  these  miserable  beings  !  The  thought  of  them  has 
haunted  me,  Isabel !  How  many  of  the  heart's  best  affections 
must  have  been  violently  wrenched  asunder,  when  they  were 
dragged  away  from  their  happy  homes  ! — you  know  that  home, 
be  it  where  it  may,  has  always  a  strong  tie — and  then  when  the 
torn  fibres  of  their  hearts  were  all  quivering  and  bleeding  with 
their  agony  and  indignation,  to  be  buried,  suffocated,  in  that  hor- 
rible dungeon,  till  the  hot  air  that  they  gaspingly  inhaled  seemed 
like  liquid  fire  to  their  burning  lips  and  throats  that  were  parched 
to  a  scorching  dryness— and  they  raved  and  shrieked  in  their 
delirious  agony,  and  tore  their  flesh  that  they  might  once 
more  moisten  their  lips,  even  if  it  were  with  their  own  blood  ! 
Then,  in  the  deep  hush  of  midnight,  when  the  empty  sails 
swung  heavily  around  the  masts,  when  the  glassy  waters  lay 
unheaving'in  the  calm  moon-lit  sleep,  and  the  smothered  cry, 
that  rose  up  at  intervals  from  the  bosom  of  that  ship,  came 
fearfully  upon  the  depth  of  that  profound  silence — then  ever 
and  anon  the  sound  of  a  dull,  heavy  plunge  into  the  still  wa» 
ters,  told  again  and  again,  that  a  human  being  had  found  an 
unwept  grave  in  their  vast  abyss. 

Yet  even  this,  is  not  the  worst  of  the  horrible  images  of  bar- 
barity that  are  thronging  about  my  brain  !  I  took  up  an  old  news- 
paper yesterday,  and — but  I  cannot  tell  you,  Isabel ;  you  would 
cover  up  your  face,  and  grow  deadly  sick,  ere  you  had  finished 


LETTERS    TO    ISABEL.  61 

half  the  terrible  recital.  Is  it  not  strange  that  man  can  be 
changed  into  such  a  monster  of  cruelty  as  he  sometimes  is  ?  De- 
liberately sporting  with  the  agony  of  his  fellow-creatures  as  if  he 
were  indeed  a  very  demon  !  And  this  is  the  work  of  SLAVERY  ! 
Can  the  denunciations  that  are  heaped  upon  it,  be  too  severe, 
my  friend?  Should  any  one  who  bears  the  name  of  a  woman 
and  Christian,  for  an  instant  tolerate  such  wickedness  ?  —  or 
should  they  not  fling  from  them  the  luxuries  that  are  pur- 
chased by  such  means,  as  if  they  were  a  deadly  poison ;  and 
pledge  themselves  never  to  remit  their  efforts  for  the  extinc- 
tion of  this  curse,  till  it  no  longer  sheds  its  blight  upon  our 
country  ? 


LETTERS  TO  ISABEL. 
No.  VII. 

You  tell  me  that  you  have  read  and  reflected  on  the  subject 
of  slavery,  till  you  are  melancholy  and  discouraged.  You  ask 
me  when  the  dispositions  of  men  will  ever  be  softened  into 
humanity — when  we  may  hope  that  the  claims  of  justice  will 
be  felt  to  be  stronger  than  those  of  interest — and  how — even 
if  they  were  willing  to  make  some  atonement  to  the  negro  for 
his  past  wrongs — the  abolition  of  slavery  might  be  accom- 
plished ?  I  will  tell  you  frankly,  Isabel,  I  do  not  know.  I  will 
acknowledge  that  there  is  but  too  much  cause  for  melancholy, 
while  reflecting  on  the  situation  of  our  enslaved  brethren — yet 
do  not  for  this,  my  friend,  suffer  yourself  to  become  discouraged 
in  a  good  work.  We  know  that  liberty  is  the  natural  right 
of  every  man,  who  has  not  by  his  crimes  rendered  it  a  forfeit 
to  the  laws  of  his  country ;  we  know  that  our  negroes  have 
been  by  no  just  laws  deprived  of  their  freedom,  and  we  know 
that  it  is  one  of  the  deadliest  in  the  long  catalogue  of  human 
crimes,  thus  to  desolate  and  ruin  the  hearts  and  the  immortal 
souls  of  men.  Surely  then,  the  path  we  are  to  pursue  is  plain 
before  us ;  and  it  becomes  us  not  to  suffer  ourselves  to  be  dis- 
quieted with  vain  doubtings.  Were  there  scarce  any  hope,  to 
the  eye  of  human  reason,  that  slavery  would  ever  be  abolished, 
still,  I  should  not  consider  that  we  had  sufficient  cause  to  remit 
our  exertions  ; — the  principles  of  justice  are  forever  the  same, 
and  a  knowledge  of  duty  is  not  with  impunity  to  be  trifled 

F 


62  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

with.  Yet  we  are  not  without  a  reasonable  hope  of  the  speedy 
approach  of  the  hour  of  emancipation.  If  those  who  profess 
themselves  favourable  to  that  cause,  would  give  it  something 
beside  mere  wishes,  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  important  alter- 
ations in  existing  circumstances  would  ere  long  be  the  result. 
Do  you  recollect  the  description  in  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake," 
of  the  almost  magical  effect  produced  by  the  approach  of  the 
signal-cross  of  Roderick  Dhu  ?  With  such  an  awakening  spirit 
should  the  call  of  benevolence  and  justice  go  forth,  gathering 
all  hearts  to  their  standard !  Is  it  not  strange  that  men  will 
make  such  sacrifices,  as  they  frequently  do,  only  to  obtain  dis- 
tinction in  the  sight  of  men,  and  are  so  dead  to  emulation  in 
deeds  for  which  they  might  glory  in  the  sight  of  heaven !  The 
question  of  how  abolition  will  be  accomplished,  must  be  the 
province  of  other  and  wiser  heads  than  ours  to  determine — but 
though  to  the  minds  of  those  whose  perceptions  have  become 
clouded  by  the  suggestions  of  prejudice  or  interest,  there  may 
appear  to  be  darkness,  or  difficulty,  upon  the  path,  yet  we  know 
there  is  one,  whose  power  can  turn  the  gloom  of  midnight 
into  the  brightness  of  noonday ! 


LETTERS  TO  ISABEL. 
No.  VIII. 

THE  world,  dear  Isabel  1 — I  am  scarcely  better  acquainted 
with  it  than  yourself.  I  only  know  that  it  contains  enough  of 
injustice  and  inhumanity  to  render  one  heartily  sick  of  it  some- 
times, and  a  sufficiency  of  beauty  and  bliss  to  make  it  a  para- 
dise, where  we  might  be  content  to  dwell  forever,  were  it  not 
so  defaced  and  darkened  by  man's  sinfulness.  The  cup  of 
life  was  given  us  by  the  hands  of  our  Maker,  pure  and  bright, 
but  the  ingratitude  of  man  hath  drugged  it  with  bitterness. 

I  wonder  not  at  your  sadness,  Isabel.  You  have  lived,  as 
it  were,  almost  in  the  midst  of  a  vision  ; — you  had  heard  of 
misery  and  wretchedness,  but  the  words  brought  with  them 
rather  an  unmeaning  sound,  than  a  sense  of  their  real  import ; 
— for  yourself,  a  star,  a  flower,  a  sunbeam,  or  a  strip  of  blue 
sky  in  the  clouded  firmament,  were  sufficient  to  bring  you 
happiness, — and  how  could  you  know  that  other  hearts  were 


LETTERS    TO    ISABEL.  63 

breaking  in  silence  ?  But  now  that  you  have  learned  to  reflect, 
to  think  of  the  happiness  of  others,  as  well  as  your  own,  and 
to  gaze  upon  the  varied  and  accumulated  forms  of  misery, 
portrayed  upon  the  pages  of  the  world's  volume,  and  worse 
than  this — when  you  witness  the  selfishness  and  heartlessness 
of  your  fellow  mortals, — I  wonder  not,  dear  Isabel,  that  you 
should  turn  away  and  weep.  But  these  feelings  will  gradually 
pass  away  from  you,  my  friend,  and  though  you  may  still 
mourn  over  the  calamities  that  you  cannot  alleviate,  yet  the 
consciousness  of  having  done  all  in  your  power,  will  give  you 
a  far  deeper  happiness  than  you  could  have  won  by  stifling 
the  impulses  of  compassion  amidst  the  excitement  of  gaiety 
and  mirth. 

You  tell  me  that  you  can  do  little  else  but  weep  over  the 
sufferings  of  those  slaves,  whose  condition  you  would  almost 
give  your  life  to  alleviate.  And  would  you  rather  not  give 
those  tears,  than  to  purchase  exemption  from  the  sadness  that 
occasions  them,  with  an  increase  of  cold-hearted  selfishness  1 
I  think  you  would.  If  there  were  no  other  life  to  look  forward 
to,  than  the  few  years  that  are  allotted  us  in  this  world,  we 
might,  perhaps,  be  justifiable  in  seeking  to  forget  both  our  un- 
happiness,  and  that  of  others ;  since  forgetfulness  would  be 
the  highest  bliss  that  we  could  hope.  But  when  we  regard 
this  world  only  "  as  a  school  of  education  for  the  next,"  we 
need  not  grudge  the  few  hours  of  sadness  that  compassion  may 
give  to  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  our  fellow-beings.  Pursue 
steadily  the  course  you  have  begun,  my  friend,  with  respect  to 
slavery — and  though  it  may  appear  to  others,  and  even  to  your- 
self, that  all  your  exertions  are  totally  unfelt  "  as  the  dust  of 
the  balance,"  yet  you  have  a  witness  in  your  own  soul,  Isabel, 
that  will  tell  you  it  is  well  to  pursue  the  path  of  duty  for  its 
own  sake.  Shall  we  refuse  to  hearken  to  the  commands  of 
God,  that  we  should  "  do  justly  and  love  mercy,"  until  we 
have  stipulated  that  a  reward  for  our  obedience  shall  be  given 
us  in  the  success  of  our  works  ?  Surely  it  is  enough  of  grace 
for  us  that  we  are  permitted  to  place  our  humble  offerings  at 
his  footstool  !  and  we  should  be  guilty  of  insolent  presumption, 
did  we  dare  to  solicit  a  further  recompense.  What !  may  we 
stand  chaffering  and  parleying  with  the  Eternal,  respecting  the 
terms  on  which  we  will  undertake  the  performance  of  our 
duty?  I  know  that  you  would  shrink  from  such  an  idea, 


64  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

Isabel !  and  yet  in  fact  we  do  this,  when,  as  with  regard  to 
the  case  of  slavery,  we  refuse  to  pursue  the  dictates  of  con- 
science, because,  to  the  eye  of  frail  mortality,  no  glorious 
results  await  in  guerdon  for  our  successful  exertions.  Oh,  it 
becomes  us  to  look  narrowly  into  our  own  hearts,  lest  we  suf- 
fer ourselves  to  be  beguiled  by  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  in 
the  specious  arguments  wherewith  we  soothe  our  consciences, 
and  to  press  onward  with  an  undoubting  trust  in  that  path, 
which  has  been  by  the  commands  of  a  just  God  made  plain 
before  us ! 


WOMAN. 


Woman's  eye, 

In  hall  or  cot,  wherever  be  her  home, 
Hath  a  heart-spell  too  holy  and  too  high, 
To  be  o'er  praised  e'en  by  her  worshipper — Poesy. 

HALLECK. 


WE  sincerely  wish  that  woman  would  make  use  of  that 
heart-spell,  which  the  poet  speaks  of  so  enthusiastically — not 
to  win  the  transient  admiration  of  a  ball-room  assembly — not 
in  adding  new  admirers  to  her  triumphant  list  of  conquests ; 
but  in  advocating  the  cause  of  the  oppressed,  in  exciting  the 
compassion  of  the  proud  lords  of  the  creation,  for  the  thousands 
of  her  fellow-creatures,  of  her  own  sex,  too,  doomed  to  drain 
to  its  very  dregs,  of  the  horrors  of  a  cup  of  bitterness.  If  she 
listens  with  a  dull  ear  to  the  beseeching  agony  of  her  own  sex 
— she  whose  peculiar  claim  to  the  fostering  of  all  the  kind  and 
delicate  affections  of  the  heart,  has  long  been  acceded  to — with 
what  face  can  she  heap  the  opprobrium  of  cruelty  and  tyranny 
upon  those  whose  characters,  both  by  nature  and  education, 
are  fitted  to  a  sterner  mould  1  Woman — why,  she  will  "  weep 
over  a  faded  flower" — because  it  reminds  her  of  fading  hope, 
and  of  the  frailness  of  mortality !  and  then  if  a  rhymester 
happen  to  come  within  telescope  distance,  her  "  sweet  sensi- 
bility" will  be  trumpeted  to  the  four  corners  of  the  Union  ! 
Now  we  are  not  of  those  who  would  dull  one  of  the  finer  feel- 
ings of  woman's  bosom — unless  they  are  so  very  exquisitely 


WOMAN. — MENTAL    REMINISCENCES.  65 

fne,  that  she  can  refuse  her  sympathy  and  relief  to  the  actual, 
overwhelming  misery  of  her  fellow  mortals — because  she  can- 
not bear  to  listen  to  the  painful  recital!  Then  indeed  we  too 
are  tempted  to  exclaim,  "  Oh  la  !" 

But  will  she,  can  she,  listen  with  cold  indifference — or  per- 
haps a  momentary  shudder — to  tales  that  should  almost  mad- 
den  her  with  the  agonizing  swell  of  her  sympathetic  feelings 
— and  turn  coldly  away  and  forget  them?  Can  she  hear  of 
one  of  her  own  sex  being  fastened  by  the  neck  to  a  cart,  and 
in  that  manner  dragged  rapidly  through  the  streets — and  of 
other  instances  of  a  similar  nature,  and  yet  say  that  her  inter- 
ference is  uncalled  for,  and  unneeded?  Or  should  we  not, 
every  woman  of  us,  north  and  south,  east  and  west,  rise  up 
with  one  accord,  and  demand  for  our  miserable  sisters  a  resti- 
tution of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  her  sex  ? 


MENTAL  REMINISCENCES. 

IT  is  pleasant  to  look  back  over  the  history  of  our  mental 
life — to  reflect  upon  its  various  changes  of  sentiment  and  feel- 
ing— to  call  up  to  recollection  the  different  acquirements  which 
have  formed,  as  it  were,  the  several  stages  of  our  intellectual 
progress.  There  are  probably  few  persons  who  have  not  felt 
a  gush  of  exultation,  when  the  opinions  or  partialities  of  child- 
hood have  been  justified  by  the  approval  of  their  riper  years, 
or  who  do  not  remember  with  satisfaction  the  enthusiastic  de- 
lights which  attended  the  acquisition  of  certain  ideas.  Not 
long  since,  I  casually  met  with  a  copy  of  the  first  book  that  I 
ever  to  my  knowledge  was  possessed  of.  I  question  whether 
a  volume  of  Mrs.  Hemans  or  Miss  Landon  would  not  have 
been  thrown  by  at  that  moment,  for  those  imperfectly  recollect- 
ed pages,  or  whether  its  stiff  pictures  and  childish  rhymes  could 
have  afforded  me  more  gratification,  even  when  my  days  were 
numbered  by  months  instead  of  years.  I  can  remember,  too, 
even  now,  the  bewilderment  and  excitement  of  feeling,  with 
which  I  bent  over  the  pages  of  the  "  Saracens,"  and  mingled 
my  very  spirit  with  their  romance.  The  high- wrought  senti- 
ments, the  achievements,  and  the  misfortunes,  of  the  heroic 
Malek  Adel,  and  the  glorious  lady  Matilda,  wrought  like  a  spell 

F2 


66  PHILANTHROPIC   AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

over  my  imagination,  till  I  felt  as  though  I  were  in  the  midst 
of  a  new  creation.  I  know  not  whether  the  world  may  have 
given  its  voice  of  praise  to  these  volumes,  or  whether  they  do 
actually  possess  any  superior  degree  of  interest,  for  I  have 
never  since  examined  them — but  I  gave  myself  up  unresistingly 
to  their  fascination.  It  was  like  being  ushered  into  the  midst 
of  a  new  creation— and  I  paused  not  to  inquire  whether  it  was 
one  of  imagination  or  reality.  The  recollection  of  what  I  had 
read,  followed  me  to  my  pillow,  and  in  my  dreams ;  and  when 
the  Sabbath  morning  interposed  betwixt  me  and  the  still  unfin- 
ished history,  I  stole  away  to  the  drawer  where  it  was  deposited, 
to  gaze  upon  the  cover  of  the  leaves  which  I  dared  not  open. 
I  have  since  wondered  that  I  did  resist  the  temptation  of  doing 
so — it  was  an  instance  of  juvenile  self-control,  that  might  shame 
many  of  the  weaker  resolutions  of  my  after  years.  Thus  fresh- 
ly, and  so  hoarded  up  as  treasures,  do  the  memories  of  infancy 
come  back  upon  the  heart  in  after  years,  yet  then,  when  the 
world  itself  seems  but  little  more  than  a  visionary  creation  of 
romance,  we  look  forward  to  the  coming  hours  of  life,  as  those 
which  are  the  storehouses  of  life's  richest  pleasures  ; — and  this, 
in  despite  of  all  that  is  said  of  the  unshadowed  bliss  of  our  in- 
fant days,  is  principally  true  ;  for  however  we  may  profess  to 
envy  the  happiness  of  childhood,  there  are  but  few  who  would 
willingly  return  to  it  again. 


SELFISHNESS. 

THIS  has  been  said  to  be  the  predominant  feeling  of  all  hearts-, 
mingling  with  the  best  and  noblest  traits  of  character,  and  the 
main-spring  of  all  our  virtues.  We  love  our  country  and  our 
friends,  it  is  asserted,  because  they  are  ours  ; — our  fellow-be- 
ings, because  they  have  been  created  after  the  same  image ; 
and  we  are  generous  and  humane,  for  the  reason  that  the  re- 
verse would  be  painful  to  ourselves.  Thus  all  the  noblest 
qualities  of  the  heart  may  be  traced  to  the  impulses  of  one  nar- 
row feeling,  and  the  broad  philanthropy  of  a  Howard,  becomes 
but  a  species  of  refined  selfishness. 

But  however  true  it  may  be,  that  the  practice  of  the  gener- 
ous virtues  is  productive  of  happiness  to  ourselves,  in  a  pro- 


SELFISHNESS.  67 

portion  equal  to  that  which  it  may  be  the  means  of  bestowing- 
upon  others,  yet  the  feelings  which  invite  their  possessors 
to  such  a  course  of  action  are  very  different  from  the  sordid 
egotism  to  which  we  are  accustomed  to  apply  the  name  of 
selfishness. 

That  this  principle  does  frequently  influence  our  conduct  to 
a  degree  of  which  we  are  ourselves  conscious,  must  be  admitted  ; 
but  it  is  extremely  wrong  to  suffer  our  exertions  in  behalf  of 
our  fellow-creatures,  to  be  limited  in  their  extent,  by  this  feeling. 
But  we  cannot  do  this,  without  openly  violating  our  express 
duties.  We  were  not  intended  to  live  solely  for  ourselves,  even 
if  it  were  possible  for  all  our  hopes  and  wishes  to  be  thus  con- 
centred ;  nor  can  we  serve  one  Divine  Master  as  we  ought, 
while  we  are  regardless  of  the  happiness  of  one  human  being; 
and  to  know  of  the  existence  of  misery,  should  even  be  suffi- 
cient to  call  forth  our  instant  exertions  for  its  relief.  It  is  not 
the  least  among  the  blessings  with  which  we  have  been  favour- 
ed by  a  kind  Providence,  that  we  should  have  so  strong  an  in- 
centive to  good  deeds  in  the  knowledge  that  they  bring  to  our 
hearts  their  immediate  reward  ;  but  our  obligation  to  attend  to 
the  several  duties  of  life,  would  not  be  lessened,  though  the 
performance  of  them  should  no  longer  be  grateful  to  our  feel- 
ings. The  gifts  of  God  are  a  double  blessing,  because  they 
are  not  only  the  source  of  happiness  to  ourselves,  but  impart 
to  us  the  higher  privilege  of  bestowing  it  upon  others. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  offered  boon  is  one  which 
we  are  permitted  to  receive  or  decline,  at  pleasure.  When  we 
neglect  to  employ  the  means  with  which  we  have  been  thus  fa- 
voured, even  though  it  should  amount  to  no  more  than  the  pos- 
session of  "  one  talent,"  we  become  unworthy  of  the  goodness 
of  our  Creator,  and  deserve  to  be  deprived  of  that  which  we 
have  as  a  just  reward,  for  the  selfishness  with  which  we  have 
suffered  our  hearts  to  be  corroded.  Is  it  not  well  then,  when 
we  sum  up  the  blessings  by  which  we  are  ourselves  surrounded, 
to  enquire  of  our  hearts  how  much  we  have  done  to  alleviate 
the  distresses  and  calamities  of  others  ?  Nay,  even  though  we 
ourselves  are  miserable,  cannot  we  contribute  something  to 
lessen  the  unhappiness  of  others  ?  Undoubtedly  we  may,  and 
ought,  to  the  utmost  of  our  power,  do  so.  When  we,  there- 
fore, take  a  survey  of  the  world  as  it  exists  around  us,  and  ex- 
amine the  various  forms  of  wretchedness  that  we  behold,  what 


68  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

do  we  find  most  forcibly  to  claim  the  interference  of  our  bene- 
volent energies  ?  Is  there  not  one  word,  one  name,  that  con- 
centrates in  itself  all  our  ideas  of  degradation  and  misery?  and 
that  name  men  have  given  to  the  being  whom  they  have  made 
the  lowest  and  vilest  in  the  scale  of  human  existence.  That 
word  is  slavery — that  being  is  the  slave !  Some  calamities 
with  which  the  human  race  are  afflicted,  appear  to  be  the  par- 
ticular visitation  of  God ;  but  this  has  its  origin  wholly  in  the 
wickedness  of  man.  To  the  extirpation  of  this  great  evil,  should 
be  given  the  prayers  and  the  sympathy  of  every  heart — the 
aid  of  every  hand.  We  are  not  to  confine  our  views  only  to 
alleviating  the  temporal  condition  of  the  slave ;  his  moral  and 
intellectual  elevation  is  an  object  of  tenfold  more  importance, 
but  his  emancipation  must  be  first  accomplished,  for  till  then, 
these  cannot  be  effectually  secured.  The  possibility  of  the  sub- 
ject being  one  which  can  excite  no  interest  in  our  bosoms, 
should  not  be  allowed  to  have  the  least  weight  in  determining 
our  conduct.  We  are  not  to  consider  whether  our  exertions  in 
behalf  of  suffering  humanity  will  be  productive  of  gratification 
to  our  own  'selfish  feelings,  but  whether  we  shall  not  disobey 
the  reiterated  commands  of  God  by  withholding  them. 


ASSOCIATIONS. 

WE  said  something,  a  short  time  since,  upon  the  propriety 
and  usefulness  of  forming  Societies  for  the  diffusion  of  know- 
ledge relative  to  slavery,  and  we  have  again  resumed  the  sub- 
ject for  the  purpose  of  more  fully  expressing  our  sentiments. 
Of  the  advantages  resulting  from  associations  in  support  of 
any  object,  we  need  to  say  but  little,  for  they  are  of  themselves 
sufficiently  obvious  ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  their 
influence  exerted  in  the  manner  mentioned,  would  be  highly 
beneficial  to  the  cause  of  Emancipation.  The  abolition  of 
slavery  can  only  be  effected  by  the  powerful  voice  of  public 
sentiment.  To  awaken  and  to  give  a  right  direction  to  this 
sentiment,  can  certainly,  then,  be  an  object  of  no  secondary 
importance,  and  we  think  no  better  means  can  be  made  use  of, 
for  the  attainment  of  that  end,  than  the  extension  of  such 
knowledge  as  may  induce  those,  who  are  now  indifferent,  to 


ASSOCIATIONS.  69 

reflect   on  the  enormities  that  are  combined  in  this  system  of 
slavery. 

There  are  many  among  us  who  are  alike  ignorant  and  care- 
less of  the  guilt  and  the  wretchedness,  which  they  are  thought- 
lessly or  unconsciously  assisting  to  support.  These  should  be 
aroused  from  their  torpid  insensibility  ;  they  should  be  remind- 
ed that  their  boasted  banner  of  freedom  waves  over  thousands 
of  degraded  slaves — that  while  they  bear  the  name,  and  profess 
the  principles,  of  Christians,  they  are  openly  nourishing  in- 
justice— that  the  stain  of  blood-guiltiness  and  oppression  is  upon 
their  land,  and  that  each  of  them  is  in  some  degree  responsi- 
ble for  her  crimes,  unless  they  lift  up  their  voice  against  them. 

We  know  that  there  are  many  among  our  own  sex,  who 
are  sincerely  averse  to  slavery,  and  who  deeply  commiserate 
the  condition  of  those  who  are  suffering  beneath  its  op- 
pression ; — why  then  will  they  not  decisively  attempt  some- 
thing for  the  relief  of  its  victims  ?  Are  these  ladies  impressed 
with  the  belief  that  their  utmost  exertions  would  be  unavailing? 
We  can  only  entreat  them  at  least  to  make  a  trial  of  them  ; 
and  if  they  do  fail,  it  will  not  be  without  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  they  have  done  what  they  could,  to  promote  the 
welfare  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  that  though  in  the  sight  of 
men  their  efforts  may  have  been  wasted,  there  is  ONE  eye  that 
has  looked  upon  them  approvingly.  But  much  the  greater  de- 
gree of  probability  is  on  the  side  of  their  success — gradual  it 
may  be, — perhaps  almost  imperceptible  in  its  immediate  effects, 
but  not  the  less  productive  of  certain  benefit.  The  moral  feel- 
ing of  our  country  requires  renovation.  She  is  hard  of  heart 
and  tyrannical,  while  she  fancies  herself  humane  and  gene- 
rous. With  one  hand  she  displays  to  the  nations  of  the  earth 
her  ensigns  of  liberty  and  justice,  with  the  other  she  presses 
the  brow  of  humanity  to  the  dust.  To  instil  juster  sentiments 
into  the  minds  of  those  who  are  to  be  the  future  guardians  of 
her  welfare,  her  statesmen  and  her  counsellors,  should  be  the 
task  of  woman.  But  to  effect  this,  her  own  feelings  must  be 
warmly  and  generally  interested  in  the  cause  of  emancipation  : 
there  must  be  a  unison  of  purpose  and  sentiment,  which  cannot 
be  attained  but  by  means  of  associations.  Opposition  to 
slavery  can  be  rendered  popular  and  general  by  no  other  me- 
thod ;  and  whether  they  are  intended  for  the  support  of  free 
labour,  or  for  the  circulation  of  such  sentiments  as  may  give  a 


70  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

right  tone  to  public  opinion  on  the  subject  of  slavery,  or,  what 
is  still  better,  for  the  furtherance  of  both  these  designs,  they 
are  calculated  to  be  of  essential  service  to  the  cause  they  ad- 
vocate. They  give  the  supporters  of  that  cause  an  opportunity 
of  numbering  their  friends — they  are  an  evidence  that  the 
opinions  expressed  are  not  merely  the  effervescence  of  excited 
feeling  in  scattered  individuals,  and  that  the  members  of  them 
are  willing  to  labour  for  the  extermination  of  the  evil  of  which 
they  disapprove  ;  while  many,  with  whom  the  impulses  of 
what  they  may,  perhaps,  consider  a  doubtful  duty,  would  be 
too  weak  a  spring  to  invite  them  to  action,  might  be  led  by  the 
interest,  which  is  excited  by  mutual  emulation  and  similarity 
of  feeling,  to  become  steady  and  conscientious  opposers  of 
slavery. 


REVIEW  OF   MRS.  HEMANS'  POETRY. 

IT  is  not  our  purpose  to  enter  into  an  examination  of  the 
general  literary  character  of  the  lady  above  mentioned.  Her 
poetry  has  been  too  widely  diffused,  and  the  beauty  of  her  sen- 
timents too  generally  acknowledged,  even  by  those  who  do  not 
rank  among  her  professed  admirers,  to  render  such  a  discussion 
necessary.  She  has  been  said  to  divide  the  palm  of  poetic 
merit  with  Miss  Landon  ;  but  while  we  would  detract  nothing 
from  the  excellence  of  the  younger  rival,  we  believe  there  are 
few  who  do  not  turn  with  pleasure  from  the  noonday  bright- 
ness of  her  page — the  scorching  breath  of  woman's  blighted 
heart,  and  the  dazzling  splendour  of  chivalric  tournament,  to 
the  gentle  pensiveness  of  the  moonlight  genius  of  Hemans. 
Her  name,  amid  those  of  the  sister  votaries  of  the  muse,  is  like 
the  star  Lyrce  amid  the  constellation  from  which  it  derives  its 
name — amid  the  bright,  brightest. 

We  confess  the  remarks  do  not  so  well  apply  to  the  volume 
which  we  intend  particularly  to  notice  at  present,  as  to  some 
of  her  other  productions.  Yet,  from  its  title,  the  "  Records  of 
Women"  should  have  been  one  of  the  best  among  them  ;  for  in 
what  should  female  genius  be  supposed  capable  of  excelling, 
if  not  in  dwelling  proudly  on  the  exalted  merits  of  her  own 
sex,  or  extracting  from  their  heart's  chords  all  their  hidden 
melody,  to  pour  in  a  flood  of  inspiration  over  her  page  ?  It  is 


REVIEW    OF   MRS.    HEMANS*    POETRY.  71 

true,  there  are  many  beautiful  passages  scattered  throughout 
the  volume — as  we  intend  presently  to  show — but  they  are  fre- 
quently weakened  by  repetition,  and  by  the  ideas  being  too 
much  diffused.  "  Arabella  Stewart,"  the  first  and  longest  piece 
in  the  volume,  together  with  the  above  faults,  contains  some 
extremely  fine  passages.  Mrs.  H.,  after  a  short  narrative  of 
the  history  of  the  heroine,  says  the  poem  is  "  meant  as  some 
record  of  her  fate,  and  the  imagined  fluctuation  of  her  thoughts 
and  feelings"  during  her  imprisonment  and  separation  from 
her  husband. — It  is  supposed  to  commence  while  she  is  yet 

"  Fostering  for  his  sake 
A  quenchless  hope  of  happiness  to  be  ; 
And,  feeling  still,  her  woman  spirit  strong 
In  the  deep  faith  that  lifts  from  earthly  wrong 
A  heavenward  glare," — 

and  before  a  fruitless  effort  to  escape  had  quenched  the  bright 
lamp  of  reason.  The  following  lines  pourtray  very  finely  the 
buoyant  spirit  of  youthful  hope,  and  the  rich,  deep  feelings  of 
womanly  affection : — 

"  I  bear,  I  strive,  I  bow  not  to  the  dust, 
That  I  may  bring  thee  back  no  faded  form, 
No  bosom  chill'd  and  blighted — 
And  thou  art,  too,  in  bonds !  yet  droop  thou  not, 
Oh,  my  beloved !  there  is  one  hopeless  lot, 
And  that  not  ours." 

"  If  thou  wert  gone 

To  the  grave's  bosom  with  thy  radiant  brow, 
If  thy  deep,  thrilling  voice,  with  that  low  tone 
Of  earnest  tenderness,  which  even  now 
Seems  floating  through  my  soul,  were  music  taken 
Forever  from  this  world — Oh !  thus  forsaken, 
Could  I  bear  on  ?" 

Again,  after  measures  had  been  secretly  taken  for  her  escaping 
and  rejoining  Seymour — her  husband — she  exclaims — 

"  We  shall  meet  soon — to  think  of  such  an  hour  ! 
Will  not  my  heart,  o'erburdcn'd  with  its  bliss, 
Faint  and  give  way  beneath  me,  as  a  flower 
Borne  down  and  perishing  by  noontide's  kiss  ."* 


72  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

The  simile  which  ends  the  verse,  we  think  uncommonly 
beautiful.  She  succeeded  in  making  her  escape,  but  was  un- 
fortunately discovered,  and  conducted  back  into  captivity. 
The  ensuing  passage  is  finely  expressive  of  the  total  blight  of 
her  heart  after  this  event : 

u  Oh,  never  in  the  worth 
Of  its  pure  cause,  let  sorrowing  love  on  earth 
Trust  fondly — never  more  ! — the  hope  is  crush'd 
That  lit  my  life,  the  voice  within  me  hush'd, 
That  spoke  sweet  oracles — and  I  return 
To  lay  my  youth  as  in  a  burial  urn, 
Where  sunshine  may  not  find  it." — 

The  above  passages  we  think  some  of  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  book  : — and  they  are  beautiful.  There  are  others,  perhaps, 
equally  so,  and  some  that  are  vastly  inferior — but  with  these 
we  will  have  nothing  to  do.  We  wish  to  extract  only  such  as 
may  be  read  again  and  again  without  weariness : — but  the 
volume  which  can  produce  such  passages  is  certainly  worth  a 
perusal  throughout,  even  if  a  considerable  portion  of  its  con- 
tents does  fall  below  their  standard.  Passing  over  several 
shorter  pieces,  we  come  to  "  Properzia  Rossi."  This  poem  is 
more  spiritual  throughout,  and  is  not  so  long  as  the  first  men- 
tioned. It  is  in  many  parts  equally  beautiful,  though  of  a  dif- 
ferent character.  The  heroine  —  a  sculptor — is  supposed  to 
be  engaged  on  her  last  work,  a  statue  of  Ariadne : 

"  The  bright  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand,  unfolding,  as  a  rose, 
Leaf  after  leaf  to  beauty  ;  line  by  line, 
I  fix  my  thought,  heart,  soul,  to  burn,  to  shine 
Through  the  pale  marble's  veins—it  grows,  and  now 
I  give  my  own  life's  history  to  thy  brow, 
Forsaken  Ariadne !  thou  shalt  wear 
My  form,  my  lineaments ;  but  oh,  more  fair  ! 
Touch'd  into  lovelier  being  by  the  glow 
Which  in  me  dwells,  as  by  the  summer's  light 
All  things  are  glorified." 

After  describing  the  blight  in  her  heart,  she  adds — 

"  Yet  the  world  will  see 
Little  of  this,  my  parting  work,  in  thee— 


THE    FUNERAL.  73 

Thou  shalt  have  fame  !    Oh,  mockery  !  give  the  reed 
From  storms  a  shelter — give  the  drooping  vine 
Something  round  which  its  tendrils  may  entwine — 
Give  the  parch'd  flower  a  rain-drop — and  the  meed 
Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman  !    Worthless  fame, 
That  in  his  bosom  wins  not  for  my  name 
The  abiding  place  it  ask'd !    Yet  how  my  heart 
In  its  own  fairy -land  of  song  and  art 
Once  beat  for  praise !" 

44  But  I  go 

Under  the  silent  wings  of  peace  to  dwell, 
From  the  slow  wasting,  from  the  lonely  pain, 
The  inward  burning  of  the  words, '  in  vain,' 
Sear'd  on  the  heart,  I  go." 

We  have  no  room  for  further  extracts  or  remarks  at  present, 
and  we  conclude  with  advising  every  lady,  who  has  not  already 
done  so,  to  procure  and  read  Mrs.  Hemans'  poems  throughout. 


THE  FUNERAL. 

I  waked  from  my  first  slumber  in  Pennsdale,  on  a  bright 
Sabbath  morning — or,  in  the  phraseology  of  my  uncle's  fam- 
ily, First-day — and  after  breakfast,  prepared  for  a  three  or  four 
miles'  ride  to  meeting.  The  usual  distance  was  this  day  to  be 
somewhat  lengthened,  in  order  to  attend  a  funeral — that  of  an 
aged  man,  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  Pennsdale.  I  had  long 
known  him  by  name,  for  he  had  been  throughout  the  course  of 
a  long  life  the  most  intimate  friend  of  my  grandfather ;  and  it 
was  not  without  a  feeling  of  saddened  interest,  that  I  listened, 
as  we  rode  slowly  up  the  lane  towards  the  house,  to  a  short 
account  of  his  life  and  character  from  the  lips  of  my  uncle. — 
He  concluded  with  saying — "  Yet  though  few  men  have  been 
more  generally  regarded  with  a  feeling  of  affectionate  venera- 
tion, his  death  will  not  be  very  bitterly  lamented.  It  was  not 
one  of  those  which  afflict  the  heart  of  the  survivor  alike  with 
grief  and  terror ;  he  had  outlived  most  of  the  friends  of  his 
youth,  and  had  long  been  like  a  ripened  sheaf  waiting  for  the 
harvester." 

In  a  few  moments,  I  was  standing  by  the  coffin.  The  face 
G 


74  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

'before  me  was  deeply  furrowed  with  the  lines  of  age,  but  the 
expression  it  still  wore  was  so  calm,  so  peaceful,  so  full  of  be- 
nevolence, that  I  felt  I  could  have  dearly  loved  him  ;  and  the 
tears  almost  started  to  my  eyes  at  the  thought  that  he  could 
not  now  bestow  on  me  one  look  of  kindness. 

His  son,  a  man  considerably  advanced  in  years,  was  seated 
by  the  head  of  the  coffin.  His  face  was  sorrowful,  but  calm 
and  perfectly  resigned.  The  grand-children  of  the  deceased 
were  seated  near  him,  but  though  the  tears  fell  fast  and  almost 
unconsciously  from  many  of  their  eyes,  they  were  rather  the 
tears  of  tenderness  than  of  deep  affliction  ; — called  forth  by 
the  memory  of  all  the  happy  hours  they  had  spent  by  his 
side,  or  seated  on  his  knee,  and  the  thought  of  all  his  gentle 
words  of  admonition  and  affection. 

The  coffin  was  at  length  closed,  and  placed  in  the  simple 
hearse,  and  the  procession  moved  forward.  The  meeting-house 
of  Pennsdale  was  situated  in  a  still,  secluded  spot,  and  was 
completely  embowered  by  large  forest  trees,  while  the  ground 
on  all  sides  rose  from  it  in  a  gentle  slope,  seeming  almost  to 
shut  it  out  from  the  world,  and  from  all  sights  save  the  azure 
of  the  heavens  and  the  universal  green  of  the  earth.  It  was 
an  old  stone  building,  and  very  small,  and  as  plainly  construct- 
ed as  possible.  Behind  it  was  the  grave-yard  ; — enclosed  by 
low  stone  walls,  and  shaded  all  round  by  immense  elms,  though 
none  were  suffered  to  intrude  within  its  limits.  I  was  scarcely 
ever  more  surprised  than  on  entering  it.  The  Quaker  burial 
places  in  general — I  have  been  in  many  of  them — present 
nothing  but  an  undulated  surface  of  verdure.  But  here  every 
grave  had  its  memorial — rose  bushes  planted  at  the  head  and 
foot,  entwining  their  branches  and  scattering  their  perfume, 
and  their  luxuriant  branches  over  the  remains  of  the  beloved 
ones — sometimes  haif  hiding  from  view  a  simple  tablet  of  wood 
or  marble.  The  sweet-briar  'and  wild  honeysuckle  almost 
covered  the  walls,  filling  the  air  with  their  fragrance — while 
the  song  of  the  woodland  bird  and  the  ceaseless  hum  of  the 
honey-bee  went  up  for  hymn  and  requiem. 

We  gathered  round  the  open  grave,  and  there  was  a  deep 
silence — silence  in  the  heart  as  well  as  in  the  outward  world. 
Most  of  those  who  were  assembled  there,  remembered  well  the 
face  that  was  now  to  be  seen  of  them  no  more  ;  and  while 
their  thoughts  wandered  over  the  scenes  of  his  past  life,  they 


DOMESTIC    ECONOMY.  75' 

could  not  fail  to  return  to  their  bosoms  strengthened  and  puri- 
fied. A  few  solemn  words  were  spoken,  and  then  that  form 
was  shut  from  them  on  earth  forever. 

We  retired  into  the  meeting-house. — There  was  one  seat 
left  vacant — one  that  had  seldom  been  so,  even  amid  summer's 
heat  or  winter's  storms,  for  upwards  of  thirty  years  past. 
The  time  of  worship  passed  over  in  silence,  but  the  faces  of 
those  about  me  became  gradually  lightened,  and  when  it  was 
concluded,  the  usual  friendly  greetings  were  interchanged  and 
kindly  words  spoken,  by  voices  that  were  indeed  more  serious 
than  their  accustomed  tone,  but  from  hearts  that  were  peaceful 
and  happy. 


DOMESTIC  ECONOMY. 

As  the  increased  expense,  incurred  by  making  use  of  the 
productions  of  free  labour,  is  often  among  the  reasons  assign- 
ed for  neglect  of  that  method  of  opposition  to  Slavery,  it  may 
perhaps  be  well  to  examine  how  far  such  an  objection  is  en- 
titled to  consideration.  For  our  own  part,  we  do  not  think  it 
should  be  allowed  the  least  weight  in  determining  our  conduct. 
We  do  not  conceive  that  it  is  any  more  excusable  to  make  use 
of  slave-wrought  articles,  on  account  of  their  cheapness,  than 
we  have  to  indulge  in  whatever  else  may  please  our  fancy,  at 
the  expense  of  the  unpaid  creditor.  Yet,  as  a  close  attention 
to  household  economy  is  certainly  the  duty  of  every  female, 
let  us  enquire  if  it  is  not  possible  to  indulge  their  feelings  of 
humanity,  and  satisfy  the  claims  of  justice,  without  extending 
the  limits  they  have  prescribed  for  their  expenses.  The  differ- 
ence in  the  price  of  the  articles,  though  trifling,  may  still, 
when  the  income  of  a  family  is  barely  sufficient  to  cover  its 
expenses,  deserve  to  be  taken  into  account.  But  if  the  express- 
ed philanthropy  is  sincere,  if  there  is  really  a  wish  felt  to  lift 
the  yoke  from  the  neck  of  our  enslaved  countrymen,  in  every 
case,  short  of  actual  poverty,  might  the  change  from  slave  to 
free  produce  be  made  without  adding  one  item  to  the  expen- 
diture, or  even  in  the  least  encroaching  on  the  aggregate  of 
comfort.  It  is  but  to  forego  some  paltry  gratification,  to  resign 
some  trifle  in  which  the  vanity  only  is  concerned,  (and  who 
has  not  such  offerings  to  make,)  and  a  fund  is  at  once  provided, 


76  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

sufficient  for  the  purpose.  Is  it  not  better  to  eat  coarse  food, 
unspoiled  by  rapine  and  injustice?  Is  it  not  better  to  wear  a 
plain  garb,  than  to  be  pranked  out  in  delicate  or  fashionable 
array,  which  has  been  won  by  oppression  ?  Surely  it  is  !  and 
if  the  importance  of  the  subject  was  more  frequently  and  care- 
fully examined,  we  believe  there  are  many  who  would  be  not 
unwilling  to  give  such  a  proof  of  their  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
emancipation. 


INCONSISTENCY. 

ALMOST  three  centuries  since,  at  a  time  when  Europe  was 
just  emerging  from  the  mental  darkness  which  had  been  long 
spread  over  it,  the  unprincipled  Pope  Leo  X.,  little  scrupulous 
as  he  was  with  regard  to  the  means  of  acquiring  wealth,  de- 
clared "  that  not  only  the  Christian  religion,  but  that  nature 
herself,  cried  out  against  a  state  of  slavery."  Elizabeth  of 
England,  though  she  shrank  not  from  the  commission  of  a 
crime  which  will  forever  cast  a  stigma  upon  her  character — 
the  execution  of  the  unfortunate  Queen  of  Scots — in  expressing 
her  opinion  of  the  guilt  of  violently  separating  men  from  their 
homes  and  families,  and  forcing  them  into  a  state  of  bondage, 
gave  it  as  her  sentiment,  that  "  it  would  be  detestable,  and 
would  call  down  the  vengeance  of  heaven  upon  the  under- 
takers." 

Such  were  the  opinions  entertained  with  regard  to  slavery, 
at  the  commencement  of  this  horrible  traffic,  which  has  since 
poured  out  such  an  ocean  of  innocent  blood.  Opinions  express- 
ed too,  at  a  time  when  its  heart-sickening  cruelty  was  rather 
to  be  inferred  from  its  nature,  than  absolutely  demonstrated  by 
previous  example; — though,  even  then,  its  horrible  inhumanity 
was  sufficiently  apparent — and  expressed,  too,  by  those  who 
were  not,  as  princes  have  seldom  been,  remarkable  for  an  en- 
thusiastic devotion  to  the  principles  of  justice.  Yet  now,  when 
the  light  of  reason  and  knowledge  has  been  shed,  in  no  stinted 
increase,  over  the  earth,  slavery  not  only  has  her  strenuous 
advocates  among  men  of  refinement  and  intelligence,  but  still 
exists,  uncensured  and  sanctioned  by  the  laws  of  a  nation 
which  professes  a  close  observance  of  the  rules  of  Christianity 
and  moral  justice,  and  which  claims  no  second  place  among 


INCONSISTENCY.  77 

the  free,  the  liberal,  and  the  enlightened  of  the  earth.  The 
foreign  Slave-trade  has,  it  is  true,  been  abolished — has  been 
declared  piracy.  But  our  country  still  clings  to  the  guilt,  of 
which,  in  the  face  of  the  world,  she  has,  by  that  act,  openly 
avowed  her  conviction ;  and  the  domestic  traffic  in  human 
flesh,  is  still  unforbidden.  The  dark  shadow  of  the  slave  ves- 
sel yet  lies  upon  our  bright  rivers,  and  the  long  shriek  of  hearts 
in  their  mortal  agony,  rises  on  the  ear,  as  the  brutal  driver 
hurries  before  him  his  brother  herd,  and  the  dearest  natural  ties 
are  parted  forever. 

Strange  inconsistency  !  that  we  should  foster  at  home,  what 
we  denounce  as  deadly  iniquity  abroad  !  As  if  the  American 
air,  hostile  to  every  finer  feeling,  had  deadened  all  kindly  emo- 
tions, as  well  in  the  bosom  of  the  slave  as  of  his  tyrant,  and 
their  ties  of  home,  of  kindred,  and  of  friends,  were  no  longer 
worthy  a  regardful  thought.  True,  the  ravage  of  fertile  plains, 
the  glare  of  burning  villages,  and  the  horrors  attendant  upon 
the  "  middle  passage,"  are  no  longer  sanctioned.  But  what  then  ? 
are  we  to  consider  the  evil  abolished,  because  an  attempt  has 
been  made  to  confine  it  to  our  own  door  ?  Do  fetters  cease  to 
gall  when  they  are  worn  beneath  an  American  sun  ;  or  does  a 
breaking  heart  agonize  less  when  its  cords  are,  one  by  one, 
torn  away,  that  it  must  more  slowly  sink  to  death,  than  when 
a  fierce  grasp  has  severed  them  at  once,  and  it  bursts  with  its 
first  throb  of  unendurable  anguish  1 

Oh,  if  we  would  but  teach  ourselves  to  reflect !  If  we  would 
think  on  all  the  hearts  that  so  bleed  and  die  beneath  the  torn 
fibres  of  affection — on  all  the  misery  that  is  daily  endured — 
on  all  the  guilt  that  is  incurred — if  we  would  picture  to  our- 
selves the  infant,  wrenched  shrieking  from  the  clinging  arms 
of  its  mother — the  wretched  wife,  torn  away  in  her  frantic  grief, 
from  the  last  embrace  of  her  purchased  husband — brethren  and 
sisters,  who  grew  up  under  one  roof,  scattered  asunder,  like 
withered  leaves  beneath  the  autumn  tempest,  and  knowing  each 
other's  place  upon  the  earth  no  more  forever.  Surely,  we 
would  "  lay  our  mouths  in  the  dust,  in  shame  and  sorrow,  for 
the  heartless  indifference  we  have  so  long  manifested  for  the 
sufferings  of  the  oppressed." 

G2 


78  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 


THE  ENFRANCHISEMENT. 

IT  was  a  pretty-looking  cottage — with  its  roof  half  covered 
with  the  boughs  of  a  great  tree,  and  vines  creeping  up  about 
the  doors  and  windows.  The  garden,  with  its  gay  flowers, 
tempting  berries,  and  fine  vegetables,  was  almost  without  a 
weed  ;  while  the  paling  that  surrounded  both  that  and  the  grass- 
plot,  in  front  of  the  house,  fairly  glistened  with  its  fresh  cover- 
ing of  white-wash. 

The  old  woman  was  seated  in  a  large  arm-chair,  just  out- 
side of  the  door.  Her  countenance  was  one  of  the  finest  I 
have  ever  seen.  She  had  probably  past  seventy  summers,  but 
her  brow  yet  remained  as  dark  as  the  still  brilliant  eye  over 
which  it  was  arched.  The  lines  of  age  were  distinctly,  but  not 
deeply  traced  upon  her  cheek  and  forehead ;  and  her  mouth 
and  chin,  though  wearing  them  much  more  visibly  than  her 
other  features,  retained  their  characteristic  marks  of  firmness 
and  dignity.  Her  whole  face  was  beaming  with  mingled  bene- 
volence, gratitude,  and  devotion.  By  her  side  was  sitting  a 
little  dark-faced  urchin  of  some  half  dozen  years—and  grouped 
round  them,  either  seated  on  the  grass,  or  on  a  long  bench  be- 
neath the  tree,  several  other  descendants  of  Africa,  whose  hap- 
py faces,  glowing  with  intelligence  and  feeling,  spoke  nothing 
of  that  consciousness  of  abasement  and  degradation,  which  is 
so  often  written  upon  the  countenances  of  their  race. 

Shall  I  tell  you  the  history  of  that  group  ?  It  is  a  tale  of 
female  generosity,  and  negro  gratitude. 

That  woman — she  in  the  elbow-chair,  with  the  open  bible 
upon  her  knee — was  a  native,  and  till  within  these  few  years 
a  resident,  of  Kentucky.  Her  husband  was  an  owner  of  slaves 
— her  father  had  been — and  in  her  youth  she  thought  but  little 
of  the  sinfulness  of  laying  unrighteous  hands  upon  the  property 
of  God.  But  when  the  gentle  creatures  that  called  her 
"  mother,"  gathered  about  her  with  their  loving  eyes,  and  she 
listened  to  their  soft  voices  in  the  evening  twilight,  she  felt  how 
wretched  would  be  her  lot,  if  it  were  in  the  power  of  man's 
hand  to  tear  them  from  her  arms  forever ;  and  she  thought  of 
them,  and  commiserated  the  condition  of  the  miserable  slave. 
At  first  it  was  compassion  only  that  led  her  to  sympathise  with 


THE   ENFRANCHISEMENT.  79 

their  unhappy  fate ;  but  the  conviction  soon  came  to  her  heart, 
that  slavery  was  unjustifiable  wickedness  in  the  sight  of  the 
Almighty.  She  entreated  her  husband,  almost  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  one  beseeching  for  her  own  life,  to  liberate  their  slaves. 
He  refused — and  she  wept  secretly  and  in  silence — but  by  every 
means  in  her  power  she  strove  with  tireless  perseverance  to 
alleviate  the  bitterness  of  their  lot.  She  was  their  instructor, 
their  friend,  their  benefactress,  moving  about  among  them  more 
like  a  parent  than  a  mistress,  preserving  their  respect  by  the 
quiet  dignity  of  her  manner,  and  winning  their  enthusiastic 
gratitude  and  love,  by  her  kindness  and  affection. 

When  her  husband  died,  they  were  distributed  among  their 
children,  who  had  all  married,  and  left  the  paternal  roof.  Again 
she  renewed  her  solicitations  for  the  freedom  of  those  objects 
of  her  care — and  again  she  was  repulsed — ay,  even  by  her 
own  children  was  her  prayer  refused  to  be  granted.  She  did 
not  stoop  to  remonstrance,  but  her  resolution  was  taken — and 
great  as  was  the  sacrifice,  she  accomplished  the  holy  purpose  of 
her  heart.  She  purchased  those  slaves,  from  the  oldest  to  the 
youngest — she  accompanied  them  here,  to  Ohio,  where  she 
might  bestow  on  them  the  blessing  of  liberty — she  expended 
almost  her  last  cent  in  the  performance  of  her  high  deed  of 
justice ;  and  they  flung  themselves  at  her  feet  in  an  overwhelm- 
ing burst  of  gratitude — disenthralled — enfranchised  ! 

And  they  have  never  forgotten  her  kindness.  She  owes  all 
the  comforts  with  which  she  is  surrounded,  to  their  unwearying 
industry :  to  labour  for  her,  to  serve  her,  and  to  obey  her  light- 
est word,  is  alike  their  pride  and  their  happiness — and  on  this 
evening  they  are  all  met  together  at  her  cottage,  to  celebrate 
the  anniversary  of  their  emancipation. 

"Is  it  a  true  story?" 

Why — recollect  't  is  summer  twilight,  and  there  is  the  moon, 
just  rising  over  the  tree-tops ;  so  a  little  embellishment  may  be 
pardonable.  But  the  circumstance  of  that  widow  having  thus 
purchased  and  manumitted  those  slaves,  and  the  story  of  their 
gratefully  labouring  for  her  support— is  really  the  truth. 


80  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

CONVERSATION. 

AMONG  the  methods  employed  by  the  female  friends  of 
emancipation,  to  benefit  the  unhappy  slave,  and  extend  to  other 
bosoms  the  sympathy  for  his  situation,  which  they  themselves 
feel,  must  not  be  overlooked  the  useful  and  very  obvious  one, 
of  frequent  conversation  on  that  subject.  Those  who  are 
already  interested  will,  by  pursuing  this  course  among  them- 
selves, find  their  feelings  still  more  deeply  engaged  in  the 
cause  of  freedom,  their  purposes  strengthened,  and  their  minds 
excited  to  more  sedulous  perseverance  ;  while  an  allusion  to 
the  subject,  in  the  presence  of  others,  may  open  the  door  to  an 
instructive  discourse,  awaken  the  dormant  sensibilities,  and 
perhaps  arouse  into  action  those  who  have  never  before  had 
their  attention  directed  to  the  subject.  Opportunities  for  this 
are  rarely  wanting  in  society,  and  a  few  words  so  uttered  may 
perhaps  leave  an  abiding  impression  on  a  mind  previously  un- 
occupied by  prejudices,  and  prepare  it  to  receive,  with  attention, 
any  future  information  relative  to  the  system.  Let  not  any  be 
discouraged  from  adverting  to  this  topic  by  the  belief  that  they 
shall  fail  to  interest  their  hearers  ;  it  is  better  to  risk  the  mortifi- 
cation of  being  listened  to  with  repulsive  coldness,  than  to  fail 
of  using  every  proper  exertion,  in  a  cause  where  so  much  is 
needful  in  order  to  ensure  success.  Besides,  where  there  is 
least  expectation  of  securing  attention,  the  attempt  to  do  so  is 
sometimes  rewarded  by  a  more  than  ordinary  display  of  it ; — 
or,  if  productive  of  no  immediate  effect,  the  words  may  be 
like  bread,  which,  being  "  cast  upon  the  waters,  shall  be  found 
after  many  days."  If  those  who  are  now  most  deeply  interested 
for  our  slave  population  endeavour  to  trace  those  feelings  of 
interest  to  their  spring,  they  will,  probably,  in  many  instances, 
find  that  they  have  their  rise  from  quite  as  trifling  a  source  as 
a  casual  conversation.  Cowper's  beautiful  poem,  "  The 
Negro's  complaint,"  was  distributed  all  over  England  under 
the  title  of  "A  subject  for  Conversation  at  the  Tea-table ;"  and 
was  supposed  to  be  productive  of  so  much  good  effect  that 
Ciarkson  has  thought  it  worthy  of  notice  in  his  "  History  of 
the  Abolition."  An  abstinence  from  slave  produce,  if  of  no 
other  service,  would  be  valuable  on  account  of  its  frequently 
giving  rise  to  such  conversations,  and  we  hope  that  the  few 
advocates  of  that  system,  will  suffer  no  suitable  opportunity 
.for  representing  its  advantages  to  pass  unimproved* 


STAR-LIGHT. PREJUDICE.  81 

STAR-LIGHT. 


1  They  are  all  up — the  innumerable  stars !" 


THERE  is  something  inexpressibly  solemn  in  the  silence  of  a 
starry  moonlight.  The  splendour  of  the  moon  is  beautiful,  but 
it  has  less  of  high  magnificence,  less  of  the  upliftedness  of 
thought,  with  which  we  gaze  on  those  immeasurably  distant 
constellations.  The  moonless  sky  has  nothing  of  that  surpass- 
ing loveliness  that  presses  with  a  tangible  weight  of  pleasure 
upon  the  heart  ;  but  there  is  more  unearthliness  in  the  high 
imaginations  that  gather  around  the  spirit,  when  the  dark  blue 
concave  is  bended  over  the  raised  brow,  and  written  all  over 
with  a  visible  sermon  of  light,  teaching  the  heart  a  holy  lesson 
with  its  unapproachable  purity. 

The  wearying  toil  of  the  day  has  given  way  to  a  deep  re- 
pose, and  the  very  slave  hath  sunk  into  a  short-lived  slumber. 
Alas,  alas,  bright  watchers !  that  ye  should  look  down  in  your 
pure  light  upon  a  world  of  so  much  sinfulness.  That  ye  should 
behold  man  fettered  by  his  brother,  and  the  heart  of  woman 
crushed  by  those  who  should  seek  to  shelter  it  from  the  blasts 
of  all  sorrow.  Woe  for  man's  cruelty !  that  hath  made  so 
many  anguished  hearts  to  keep  ward  with  you,  and  send  up 
the  beseeching  cry  of  wretchedness,  instead  of  the  deep  hymn 
of  adoration,  beneath  your  beams  ! 


PREJUDICE. 

WHEN  we  consider  the  strength  of  early  impressions,  and 
the  readiness  with  which  even  our  own  more  matured  minds 
receive  a  bias  from  trifling  circumstances,  the  necessity  will 
easily  be  perceived  of  using  the  utmost  watchfulness,  in  order 
to  guard  the  minds  of  the  young  from  the  influence  of  erroneous 
impressions.  Upon  the  friends  of  the  negro  we  would  particu- 
larly impress  the  duty  of  extreme  wariness,  in  order  to  preserve 
those  under  their  care  from  the  contagion  of  the  prevailing  preju- 
dices against  that  unhappy  race.  Suffer  not  those  who  are  rising 
into  life  to  enter  its  arena,  as  too  many  of  ourselves  have  done, 
with  their  feelings  warped  by  early  misrepresentations,  and 


82  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

their  ideas  of  a  dark  skin  inseparably  connected  with  unworthi- 
ness  of  character.  There  are  few  females  who  have  not,  in 
some  way  or  other,  a  degree  of  influence  over  the  mind  of  child- 
hood. Let  them  exert  that  influence  for  the  benefit  of  their 
negro  brethren.  Let  them  carefully  search  out,  and  endeavour 
to  eradicate  from  the  minds  of  their  young  friends  or  relatives, 
any  feelings  of  dislike  or  contempt,  that  may  have  been  ac- 
quired from  derogatory  opinions  of  the  coloured  race,  which 
have  been  expressed  in  their  presence ;  and  thus  fit  them,  in 
after-life,  to  be  the  friends  and  advocates  of  the  cause  of  the 
slave. 

We  do  not  say,  that  the  vices  of  the  negro  should  be  glossed 
over,  and  his  faults  concealed  or  palliated,  in  order  to  effect 
this.  But  it  is  surely  most  unjust,  because  many  of  them  have 
been  hitherto  degraded  beings,  to  insinuate  the  idea  into  the 
mind  of  the  child,  that  all  are,  and  must  ever  remain  so.  If 
he  is  told  that  they  are  ignorant  and  debased,  let  the  inducing 
causes  of  their  situation  be  pointed  out  to  him ; — let  him  see 
the  difficulties  they  have  to  contend  with ;  and  let  him  be  told, 
that  some  among  them  have  nobly  succeeded  in  conquering  all 
the  opposing  force  of  untoward  circumstances,  and  rising  into 
high  respectability.  He  will  then  form  a  true  estimate  of  their 
respective  situations.  He  will  see  that  the  negroes  have  not 
risen  to  a  higher  grade  in  society  because  their  efforts  to  do  so 
have  been  continually  baffled  and  discountenanced,  by  the  con- 
tempt and  unrelenting  prejudices  of  the  whites ;  and  instead 
of  despising  them  for  what  they  are,  he  will  endeavour  to  ele- 
vate their  character,  and  to  infuse  a  higher  tone  of  moral  feel- 
ing into  their  minds,  by  inspiring  them  with  self-respect,  and 
teaching  them  that  they  may,  by  exertion,  reach  a  station  in 
life  worth  contending  for. 


OBEDIENCE. 

OUGHT  it  not  to  be  a  source  of  shame  to  us,  when  we  reflect 
upon  the  unhesitating  enthusiasm  with  which  many  of  the  vo- 
taries of  a  heathen  faith  enter  into  the  performance  of  what 
they  deem  their  religious  duties,  that  our  own  obedience  to  the 
commands  of  our  Eternal  Lawgiver  should  be  so  tardily  ren- 


OBEDIENCE.  83 

dered,  so  measured  according  to  the  rules  of  a  calculating  con- 
venience ? 

The  pilgrim,  who  worships  at  the  shrine  of  Mecca,  has  dared 
the  perils  of  the  desert,  and  the  deadly  breath  of  the  poisonous 
simoom,  that  he  may  pour  his  prayer  on  what  he  deems  the 
holiest  spot  of  the  earth's  regions ; — the  wretch  who  lies  man- 
gled and  writhing  in  tortures  beneath  the  car  of  Juggernaut, 
voluntarily  tore  himself  away  from  all  the  twining  affections 
of  the  heart,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  win  an  abode  in  heaven 
as  the  recompense  of  his  self-immolation ; — the  mother  who 
lays  her  only  infant  in  his  bark  of  flowers,  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  sacred  Ganges,  as  a  pure  and  stainless  offering  to  her  God, 
is  sustained  in  the  hour  of  that  terrible  sacrifice  by  a  wild  de- 
votedness  of  religion,  that,  erring  as  it  may  be,  gives  proof,  at 
least,  of  sincerity  and  singleness  of  heart.  But  we — whose 
religion  requires  of  us  only  our  own  happiness — whose  heaven 
is  to  be  won,  not  by  devoting  ourselves  to  wretchedness  on 
earth,  but  by  obedience  to  laws,  which,  like  Him  from  whom 
they  emanate,  are  full  of  mercy  and  universal  love — we,  with  a 
strange  perverseness,  dash  away  from  us  the  cup  of  our  bliss, 
and  refuse  submission  ! 

We  profess  to  be  a  Christian  people — to  kindle  the  devotion 
of  our  hearts  at  the  altars  of  the  unchangeable  Jehovah ;  yet 
our  actions  turn  his  holiest  precepts  into  mockery.  He  hath 
bidden  us  to  love  our  brethren  ;  but  we  have  made  them  mise- 
rable slaves — degraded  them  into  chattels — brutes — to  be  tasked 
and  sold  at  our  pleasure.  He  hath  charged  us  to  return  good 
for  evil ;  but  we  heap  up  injuries  upon  those  who  have  done  us 
no  evil.  The  Hindoo  offers  himself  a  willing  sacrifice;  but 
we  crush  the  hearts  of  thousands  of  our  brethren  beneath  the 
car  of  a  demon  far  more  horrible  than  the  eastern  idol.  The 
"  voice  of  our  brother's  blood  crieth  out  against  us  from  the 
ground " — and  shall  we  dare  to  hope  that  we  shall  be  held 
guiltless  concerning  it  ?  Shall  we  soothe  ourselves  with  the 
belief,  that  our  iniquity  will  never  be  met  by  retributive 
justice? 


84  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

SPRING  FLOWERS. 


"  The  wise 

Read  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  Heaven, 
And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry." 


I  LOVE  the  fair  and  beautiful  blossoms  tbat  are  scattered  so 
abundantly  in  the  spring  season  over  the  field,  and  by  the  quiet 
edges  of  the  wood,  or  when  their  sunny  petals  tremble  to  the 
pleasant  murmuring  of  the  streams,  that  go  by  like  merchant- 
men trafficking  their  melody  for  gales  of  odour.  I  would  not 
gather  the  first  flowers  that  lift  up  their  delicate  heads  to  meet 
me  in  my  spring  path  ; — it  seems  to  me,  almost  as  if  they 
were  gifted  with  a  feeling,  and  a  perception  of  the  loveliness 
of  nature,  and  I  cannot  carelessly  pluck  them  from  their  frail 
stems  and  throw  them  aside  to  their  early  withering — 't  is  like 
defacing  the  pages  of  a  favourite  book  of  poetry,  round  which 
the  spirit  of  the  bard  seems  hovering  still  in  a  preserving 
watchfulness. 

Beautiful  flowers !  they  are  the  "  jewelry"  of  spring,  and 
bravely  do  they  decorate  her  laughing  brow,  gladdening  all 
hearts  with  her  exceeding  loveliness.  But  no  !  there  are  some 
hearts  for  whom  her  voice  has  no  cadences  of  joy,  her  beauty- 
no  power  to  hasten  the  lagging  pulses.  How  can  the  glorious 
spring  speak  rejoicingly  to  those  over  whose  degraded  brows 
the  free  gales  seem  to  breathe  revilings,  instead  of  peacefulness 
and  high  thoughts,  and  for  whose  ears  the  gush  of  melody 
seems  only  to  syllable  one  reproachful  name?  Gladness  and 
beauty  are  not  for  the  sympathies  of  the  wretched,  and  far  better 
than  the  brightness  of  the  vernal  sunshine  does  the  dreariness 
of  winter  harmonize  with  the  desolate  spirit  of  the  slave. 

Oh,  that  the  warm  breathings  of  universal  love  might  drive 
out  from  the  bosoms  of  men,  the  cold  unfeeling  winter  of  in- 
difference, with  which  they  have  so  long  regarded  the  suffer- 
ings of  their  oppressed  brethren !  that  the  beautiful  blossoms 
of  Christian  compassion  and  holy  benevolence,  springing  up  in 
their  hearts,  might  shed  over  them  the  fragrance  of  the  memory 
of  good  deeds !  Then  should  the  benediction  of  those  that 
were  ready  to  perish,  come  upon  them  like  the  blessing  of"  the 


SPRING    FLOWERS. THE    DYING    SLAVE.  85 

early  and  the  latter  rain,"  and  the  grateful  tears  of  the  forlorn 
ones  rest  on  them  as  a  fertilizing  dew,  clothing  them  with  hap- 
piness like  a  thick  mantle  of  summer  verdure. 


THE  DYING  SLAVE. 


"  I  was  in  the  right  mood  for  it,  and  so  I  gave  full  scope  to  my  imagina- 
tion,"   

HE  lay  on  a  straw  couch,  with  his  face  half  turned  towards 
the  sinking  sun.  The  skin  was  drawn  tightly  over  his  forehead, 
as  though  it  was  parched  and  shrunken  by  extreme  age ;  but 
the  restless  and  uneasy  wanderings  of  his  eye  told  that  he  still 
claimed  some  companionship  with  earthly  feelings. 

He  was  a  slave,  and  for  more  than  an  hundred  years  he  had 
gone  forth  to  the  daily  toil  of  a  bondman.  It  was  said  that  in 
the  "  father-land,"  from  which  he  had  been  torn  by  unprinci- 
pled violence,  he  had  been  a  prince  among  his  people.  In  the 
first  days  of  his  slavery,  he  had  been  fierce  and  ungovernable, 
nor  could  his  haughty  spirit  ever  be  tamed  into  subjection  until 
it  had  been  subdued  by  gratitude.  The  father  of  his  present 
master  had,  in  his  childhood,  by  interfering  to  save  him  from 
punishment,  received  on  his  own  body  the  blows  intended  for 
the  slave  ;  and  from  that  moment  he  became  to  his  youth- 
ful master  a  devoted  servant.  The  child  had  grown  up  to 
manhood,  flourished  throughout  his  term  of  years,  and  faded 
away  into  the  grave,  but  still  the  aged  Afric  lingered  upon  the 
earth  ;  and  it  was  for  the  son  of  that  man  that  he  now  waited, 
and,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "  held  back  his  breath,"  until 
he  should  behold  him. 

At  length  the  light  of  the  low  cabin  door  was  darkened*  as 
the  master  stooped  his  tall  form  to  enter  the  dwelling  of  his 
slave.  "  I  have  come,"  said  he,  as  he  approached  :  "  what  would 
you  with  me  ?" 

The  negro  raised  himself  up  with  a  sudden  energy,  and 
stretched  out  his  withered  hand.  "  Have  I  not  borne  you  in  my 
arms  in  your  helpless  infancy,"  said  he,  "  and  should  I  not 
now  once  more  behold  you  before  I  die  ?  Heed  me,  master ! 
ere  yon  sun  shall  set,  the  last  breath  will  have  passed  my  lips 

H 


86  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

— its  beams  are  fast  growing  more  aslant  and  yellower—tell 
me,  before  I  die,  if  have  I  not  served  you  faithfully  ?" 

"  You  have !" 

"  I  have  been  honest  and  true — I  have  never  spoken  to  you 
a  falsehood — I  have  never  deserved  the  lash?" 

"  To  my  knowledge,  never !"  said  his  master. 

"  Then  there  is  but  one  more  boon  that  I  would  crave  of 
you : — I  am  going  home, — to  revisit  the  scenes  of  my  youth — 
to  mingle  with  the  spirits  of  my  friends !  Suffer  me  not  to  re- 
turn to  them  a  slave  !  My  fathers  were  proud  chieftains  among 
their  native  wilds — they  sought  out  the  lion  in  the  midst  of  his 
secret  recesses  —  they  subdued  the  strength  of  the  savage 
tiger — they  were  conquerors  in  battle — they  never  bowed  to 
man — they  would  spurn  a  bondman  from  their  halls !  Oh  tell 
me,"  exclaimed  he,  seizing  his  master's  hand  in  the  rising  ex- 
citement of  his  feelings, — "  oh,  tell  me,  while  I  may  yet  hear 
the  sound,  that  I  am  once  more  free !" 

"Your  wish  is  granted,"  said  his  master,  "you  are  a 
freeman." 

"  A  freeman  !"  repeated  the  negro,  slowly  sinking  back  upon 
his  couch,  and  clasping  his  hands  above  his  head  with  all  his 
remaining  energy — "  write  it  for  me,  master  !" 

The  gentleman  tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket-book,  and  pen- 
cilling a  hasty  certificate  of  his  freedom,  handed  it  to  the  slave. 
The  old  man  lifted  up  his  head  once  more,  as  he  received  it, 
and  the  last  ray  of  sunlight  streamed  across  his  countenance, 
as  with  a  strange  smile  he  gazed  upon  the  paper ;  then  falling 
suddenly  back,  he  once  more  repeated  the  name  of  freedom, 
and  expired. 


DOING  AS  OTHERS  DO. 

WE  would  not  willingly  ascribe  to  selfishness  or  callous  feel- 
ing, the  general  reluctance,  which  so  evidently  prevails,  to 
engage  in  an  active  and  practical  opposition  to  slavery.  With 
some,  the  fear  of  ridicule  may  operate — the  dread  of  being 
supposed  to  assume  a  superior  sanctity  ; — or  a  diffidence  of  ap- 
pearing to  adopt  a  higher  standard  of  moral  purity,  than  those 
whom  they  have  been  accustomed  to  look  up  to  with  respect 
and  veneration.  But  we  believe  the  principal  reason  why  so 
little  is  done,  may  be  found  in  the  disposition  of  individuals  to 


DOING    AS    OTHERS    DO. SLAVE   LUXURIES.  87 

be  guided  by  the  opinion  and  example  of  others  who  are  un- 
concerned upon  the  subject,  rather  than  to  give  it  a  close  and 
thoughtful  examination  themselves,  and  follow  up  the  decision 
of  judgment  with  active  support.  "  My  parents,  or  my  husband, 
or  my  friends,  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  restricting  themselves 
to  free  labour  produce,"  serves  as  a  satisfactory  excuse  to  many, 
who  would  willingly  follow  a  contrary  example.  Yet  would 
it  not  be  well  for  these  to  consider  how  far  they  are  justifiable 
in  excusing  themselves  with  such  a  plea.  They  cannot  look 
into  the  hearts  of  others — they  do  not  know  whether  the 
subject  has  been  placed  before  the  minds  of  their  friends  in  its 
proper  light,  or  how  far  it  has  been  resisted  as  an  unwelcome 
intruder.  Neither  can  they  tell  how  far  their  own  example 
does,  or  might,  affect  the  actions  of  those  to  whom  they  them- 
selves look  for  instruction.  But  in  pursuing  the  course  which 
humanity  dictates,  they  cannot  be  mistaken.  The  slave  is  be- 
fore them,  helpless,  fettered,  and  miserable.  Their  sister,  wo- 
man, amidst  her  bonds  and  her  degradation,  calls  upon  them 
for  mercy  and  succour ;  she  is  faint  and  sick  with  her  bur- 
den of  toil  and  wretchedness  ;  and  will  they  refuse  to  listen 
to  the  voice  of  her  sad  tears  ?  Instead  of  calling  on  their  friends 
to  fly  with  them  at  once  to  the  relief  of  the  sufferer,  mingling 
their  tears  with  hers,  soothing  her  sorrows  and  cheering  her 
heart  once  more  with  the  light  of  hope,  will  they  engage  in  a 
heartless  consultation,  whether  their  duty  requires  of  them  to 
yield  her  their  assistance,  and  which  of  them  shall  first  go  for- 
ward to  offer  her  relief?  Alas  !  let  them  remember,  that  while 
they  delay,  her  wounds  are  still  bleeding,  her  aching  brow  is 
burning  with  insupportable  anguish,  and  that  the  long  deferred 
aid  may  perhaps  come  too  late  ! 


SLAVE   LUXURIES. 

I  BELIEVE  it  is  Addison  who  declared,  in  one  of  his  essays, 
that  the  sight  of  a  luxuriously  spread  table,  always  exhibited 
to  his  imagination,  the  sight  of  innumerable  diseases  lying  in 
ambush  among  the  dishes.  An  idea,  somewhat  similar  to  this, 
has  arisen  in  my  mind  with  respect  to  an  entertainment  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  the  slave-cultivated  cane.  I  have  fancied 
that  the  deaths-sigh  of  some  unfortunate  victim  of  oppression 


88  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

might  be  yet  trembling  on  the  bosom  of  a  jelly,  and  the  rich 
flavour  of  a  conserve  conceal  the  briny  tears  that  have  mingled 
with  the  saccharine  crystals  that  enter  into  its  composition.  A 
pound-cake  seems  like  the  sepulchre  of  the  broken  heart  with 
which  it  may,  perhaps,  have  been  purchased,  and  the  delicious 
ice  to  wear  the  red  tinge  of  human  blood.  If  those  who  un- 
scrupulously partake  of  these  delicacies,  had  beheld  the  horrors 
by  which  they  are  too  often  purchased,  if  they  could  witness, 
gathered  up  before  them,  all  the  agony  endured  by  their  fellow- 
creatures,  only  that  the  gratification  of  their  palates  might  be 
ministered  to,  I  believe  there  are  few  females  who  would  retain 
any  desire  to  taste  of  the  blood-polluted  banquet.  Yet  why 
should  the  sight  of  blood  be  needed,  when  they  know  it  has 
been  shed,  to  awaken  their  sleeping  sensibilities  ?  Under  other 
circumstances  they  would  shudder  to  be  told  that  the  morsel 
upon  their  lips,  or  the  garments  upon  their  forms,  had  been 
torn  by  rapine  and  murder  from  the  hands  of  their  rightful 
possessors ;  and  who  can  assure  them  that  the  price  of  the 
very  article  now  before  them,  has  not  been  the  life  of  a  fellow- 
creature  ?  The  whole  system  of  slavery  is  replete  with  barba- 
rity, and  there  are  numerous  instances  of  the  o'ervvearied  slave 
having  perished  with  exhaustion  amidst  his  toil,  or  died  beneath 
the  tortures  of  the  mercilessly  inflicted  lash  ; — and  how  can  it 
be  said  that  the  object  for  which  such  cruelties  are  perpetrated, 
is  free  from  the  stain  of  blood  ? 


SLAVEHOLDING. 


Oh,  execrable  son !  so  to  aspire 
Above  his  brethren ;  to  himself  assuming 
Authority  usurped,  from  God  not  given  ; 
He  gave  us  only  over  beast,  fish,  fowl, 
Pominion  absolute ;  but  man  o'er  man 
He  made  not  lord ;  such  title  to  himself 
Reserving,  human  left  from  human  free. 

MILTON. 

WHEN  slaveholding  is  abolished  we  may  aspire  to  the  cha- 
racter of  a  civilized  nation  ;  until  that  era  we  may  expect  to 
be  characterized  by  posterity  as  a  race  of  savages.  Cruelty 


SLAVEHOLDING.  89 

and  oppression  are  yet  unexpunged  vestiges  of  heathen  bar- 
barism. The  spirit  of  Christianity  and  philosophic  refinement, 
are  both  directly  and  unalterably  opposed  to  them  ;  and  before 
these  they  must  eventually  disappear,  leaving  future  ages  to  re- 
fleet  with  astonishment  on  their  long  protracted  existence.  Were 
it  not  for  the  strange  obliquity  of  our  moral  eyesight,  occa- 
sioned by  prejudice  and  long  familiar  custom,  we  should  regard 
with  becoming  horror  and  repugnance  the  savagely  unnatural 
practice  of  enslaving  our  fellow-creatures,  and  making  mer- 
chandize of  human  flesh.  To  one  whose  feelings  have  not 
been  rendered  obtuse  by  long  acquaintance  with  the  system  of 
slavery,  the  bare  imagination  of  a  slave-market  would  be  pro- 
ductive of  feelings  of  utter  abhorrence.  To  place  before  the 
mind's  eye  a  view  of  Christian  men  gathered  together  for  the 
purpose  of  chaffering  about  the  purchase  of  their  brethren,  dis- 
puting for  their  possession,  and  meting  out  the  price  of  human 
limbs  in  paltry  pieces  of  coin  : — to  behold  the  miserable  objects 
of  their  scandalous  traffic — terrified  and  heart-stricken  mothers, 
whose  frighted  infants  cling  shrieking  about  them  for  protec- 
tion— youthful  females  shrinking  painfully  from  the  exposure 
of  their  situation,  and  goaded  forward  by  the  rude  lash  and 
brutal  oath  into  public  notice — husbands  and  fathers  awaiting 
in  sullen  anguish  the  decision  which  is  to  them  the  parting 
knell  from  all  they  love — and  aged  men  that  have,  perhaps, 
worn  out  their  lives  in  toil  for  those  who  are  now  about  to 
transfer  them,  for  a  paltry  pittance,  to  a  stranger's  service — 
who  that  has  the  feelings  of  a  human  being  would  not  be  filled 
with  mingled  emotions  of  grief  and  shame  and  detestation  at 
such  a  scene !  Yet  these  are  only  the  outlines  of  the  picture, 
the  less  obvious  touches  of  the  reality  are  crowded  with  much 
that  is  still  more  harrowing  to  the  feelings  ;  the  appealing  look, 
the  convulsive  sigh,  the  disregarded  prayer — these  we  have 
not  attempted  to  pourtray  : — nor  aught  of  the  varied  circum- 
stances of  peculiar  and  individual  wretchedness  that  are  of  per- 
petual recurrence. 

How  can  it  be  believed  that  the  authors  of  so  much  misery 
are  professors  of  the  religion  of  the  meek  and  merciful  Jesus ! 
that  gentle,  compassionate  Woman  can  lend  her  sanction  to 
such  a  system,  and  join  the  oppressor  in  the  gains  of  his  dark 
iniquity.  It  is  a  bitter  thing  to  feel  that  this  is  the  truth — to 

H2 


90  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

know  that  such  scenes  are  of  daily  occurrence  in  our  country; 
and  still  more  painful  to  witness  the  indifference  with  which 
they  are  regarded  by  so  large  a  portion  of  the  community. 


TIME. 


"  Time  is  the  warp  of  life,"  he  said,  "  oh  tell 
The  young,  the  gay,  the  fair,  to  weave  it  well.' 


"  HE  has  lived  long,  who  has  lived  well,"  was  the  impressive 
sentiment  we  lately  read  on  a  tombstone  in  a  country  burial 
place.  It  was  twilight :  a  few  moments  earlier,  the  merry 
voices  of  "  the  playful  children  just  let  loose"  from  the  school- 
house,  that  stood  a  few  paces  distant,  had  thrilled  in  the  clear 
evening  air  over  the  cold  gray  memorials  of  death,  but  the 
place  was  now  deserted  and  silent,  except  the  hum  of  the  wind 
through  the  branches  of  the  scattered  cedars.  It  was  a  time 
for  serious  thought ;  and  as  we  stood  in  that  place  of  graves, 
we  gave  ourselves  up  to  the  reflections  it  was  so  well  calculated 
to  excite.  There  lay  the  head  of  infancy,  and  the  weary 
brow  of  the  "  ancient  of  days" — the  arm  of  manly  strength, 
and  the  flowing  tresses  of  beauty — the  pastor,  amid  his  silent 
but  inattentive  congregation,  not  as  heretofore  uttering  the 
monitions  of  the  Christian  law,  but  with  a  lip  despoiled  of  all  its 
eloquence. 

There  were  none  among  the  tombstones  whose  inscription 
arrested  our  attention  more  forcibly  than  the  one  above  men- 
tioned ; — it  told  so  much  of  the  value  of  our  passing  moments — 
of  the  rich  treasure  of  a  few  hours  that  have  been  crowded  with 
good  deeds.  Who  would  not  rather  die  in  early  youth,  with 
their  parting  moments  brightened  by  the  consciousness  of 
having  been  useful  to  their  fellow-creatures,  than  to  fritter 
away  the  years  of  a  Methusaleh  in  vanity  and  nothingness  ? 
And  yet  how  many  of  the  hours  of  life  are  thus  wasted  \  How 
many  of  the  bitter  tears  of  misery,  which  might  so  easily  be 
wiped  away,  if  each  one  were  less  devoted  to  a  selfish  pursuit 
after  happiness,  are  suffered  to  flow  on,  uncared  for,  and  unre- 
garded !  The  influence  of  Woman,  in  determining  the  amount 
of  human  felicity,  is,  perhaps,  even  more  powerful  than  that 


TIME. — SUNSET.  91 

of  her  brethren.  They  must  go  out,  and  endure  the  rudest 
bufferings  of  the  world,  in  nerving  their  minds  to  a  stern  pur- 
suit of  their  various  purposes  ;  but  she,  in  the  sheltered  bovver 
of  her  domestic  retirement,  has  leisure  to  analyse  the  strange 
workings  of  the  human  heart,  and  to  instil  into  it  high  principles 
of  virtue.  It  should  never  satisfy  her  to  be  a  merely  brilliant 
and  fascinating  being.  Her  own  gratification  should  ever  be 
to  a  woman  only  a  secondary  consideration  ;  and  though  her 
lot  may  thus  be  one  of  endurance  and  self-denial,  she  will 
learn  that  the  endeavour  to  secure  happiness  for  others,  will 
impart  it  also  to  her  own  bosom.  Let  her  look  abroad  upon 
the  immensity  of  suffering  that  is  poured  upon  the  hearts  of 
her  fellow-creatures  from  the  vial  of  slavery  ;  let  her  behold 
her  unoffending  sisters,  with  a  bleeding  heart,  and  too  often 
with  lacerated  limbs,  driven  out  to  their  daily  labour — the 
parent  torn  from  the  embraces  of  the  child,  the  wife  from  her 
husband,  the  sister  from  the  brother  :  let  her  think  how  many 
of  life's  severest  trials  she  would  endure  —  sickness,  abject 
poverty,  nay,  even  death  itself,  rather  than  such  a  separation, 
and  resolve,  at  once,  however  long  her  efforts  may  seem  to  be 
exerted  unavailingly,  in  endeavouring  to  relax  the  unyielding 
hand  of  oppression,  never  for  one  instant  to  remit  them,  till 
her  own  heart  is  cold  in  death,  or  injustice  has  ceased  to 
triumph. 


SUNSET. 

"  STROKE  away  the  curls  from  your  face,  Eleanor,  that  I 
may  see  your  eyes  ;  and  tell  me  what  you  have  been  thinking 
of  for  the  last  half  hour." 

"  I  have  been  watching  the  sunset,  sister ;  since  the  broad 
western  sky  was  spread  out  like  a  sea  of  glory,  fringing  every 
island  cloud  that  lay  upon  its  surface  with  a  shore  of  gold,  till 
now  that  it  has  faded  into  a  pure,  transparent  yellowness,  and 
seems  to  spring  up  like  a  transparent  arch  of  amber  to  meet 
the  blue  vault  above.  Do  you  see  yonder  mountain-tops  which 
are  just  visible,  like  a  bank  of  clouds,  at  the  edge  of  the  hori- 
zon ? — I  have  been  thinking,  sis,  how  that  clear  ocean  of  ether, 
with  the  floating  isles  of  vapour  that  lie  upon  its  surface,  re- 
sembles our  present  life  ; — for  you  see  that,  beautiful  as  it  is, 
it  has  no  abiding  place ; — while  yonder,  shadowy  indeed,  and 


92  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

dimly  seen,  yet  still  sufficiently  discernible  to  give  us  full  as- 
surance of  their  reality,  are  stretched  out  beyond  it  the  per- 
petual shores  of  eternity." 

"  And  do  you  really  deem  yonder  beautiful  and  waveless 
sky  a  fit  emblem  of  our  present  existence  ?" 

"And  is  not  life  beautiful,  sister, — with  its  wealth  of  out- 
pouring affections,  its  perpetual  gathering  up  of  new  thoughts, 
and  feelings,  and  attainments,  its  hours  of  high-wrought  re- 
flection, its  thousand  links  upon  the  heart,  and  more  than  all, 
its  moments  of  silent  holiness,  when  we  may  partake  of  the  bliss 
of  angels  in  the  privilege  of  loving  and  worshipping,  like  them, 
our  Eternal  Father?  It  may  have,  'tis  true,  its  hours  of 
chastening,  but  from  His  hand  shall  we  not  endure  its  bitter- 
ness patiently  ?" 

It  is  not  from  His  hand  that  we  are  visited  with  the  bitterest 
j  of  our  afflictions ;  it  is  man's  guilt  and  inhumanity  that  have 
so  marred  the  fair  picture  of  life,  and  drugged  its  bright  cup 
with  poison.  Cruelty  and  oppression  and  selfishness  shed  a 
dark  blight  upon  our  glorious  world,  and  pollute  our  altars  with 
hypocrisy  and  unholiness.  Man  is  the  slave  of  man ;  the 
neck  of  woman  bowed  down  to  the  yoke  of  injustice,  the  most 
sacred  ties  of  the  human  heart  are  rent  asunder  at  the  com- 
mand of  a  tyrant ;  and  yet  we  go  on  from  day  to  day,  ab- 
sorbed in  our  own  pursuits,  and  '  lay  none  of  these  things  to 
i  heart.'" 


THE   MAP. 

AY,  it  is  the  map  of  Africa — there  is  the  seat  of  ancient 
Carthage — there  is  Egypt  —  there  is  the  spot  from  whence 
arose  the  bright  day-star  of  science — the  birth-place  of  intel- 
lectual glory,  where  the  human  mind  first  arose  in  its  strength, 
and  arrayed  itself  with  knowledge,  as  the  garment  of  a  con- 
queror. They  may  talk  of  Rome,  the  "  Niobe  of  Nations," 
sitting  in  voiceless  woe  amidst  the  melancholy  ruins  of  her 
former  grandeur ;  but  what  is  her  fate  to  that  of  Africa  1  hap- 
less, unpitied  Africa  !  "  weeping  for  her  children,  and  refusing 
to  be  comforted,  because  they  are  not" — because  they  have 
been  torn  from  her  with  ruthless  violence,  that  they  might  be 
immolated  on  the  altars  of  the  unrighteous  mammon ! 


THE    MAP. SOURCES    OF    INFLUENCE.  93 

When  the  hearth-stones  of  Ramah  were  drenched  in  blood, 
and  soft,  laughing  eyes  looked  up  in  innocent  confidence 
through  the  golden  curls  that  clustered  over  their  brows,  at  the 
stern  hands  that  were  lifted  for  slaughter—then  Africa  received 
in  her  arms,  and  sheltered  in  her  bosom,  the  Christian's  infant 
Saviour  from  the  destroying  wrath  of  Herod — and  the  Christian 
hath  requited  her  by  making  her  children  a  prey  to  unholy 
avarice  and  cruelty— by  plunging  her  amidst  calamity  and 
bloodshed,  and  carrying  desolation  throughout  her  borders ! 


SOURCES  OF  INFLUENCE. 


"  If  we  look  around  not  only  on  the  external,  but  on  the  moral  and 
mental  distinctions  among  mankind,  and  consider  the  ignorance,  the  mis- 
eries  and  the  vices  of  others  as  a  ground  for  our  more  abundant  gratitude ; 
what  sort  of  feeling  will  be  excited  in  certain  persons  by  a  sight  and 
sense  of  those  miseries,  those  vices,  and  that  ignorance,  of  which  their 
own  influence,  or  example,  or  neglect,  has  been  the  cause  ?" 

HANNAH  MORE. 


THERE  is  no  power  so  widely  diffused,  or  of  which  we  are 
so  little  able  to  compute  the  final  extent,  as  that  of  Influence. 
As  a  spark,  originating  in  the  most  humble  source,  or  falling 
at  first  unnoticed  or  disregarded,  is  capable,  as  it  kindles  and 
spreads,  of  producing  a  vast  and  uncontrollable  conflagration ; 
— so  may  a  seemingly  obscure  individual,  give  the  first  impulse 
to  a  sentiment,  that,  like  the  rushing  flame,  shall  bear  down  in 
its  course  the  whole  broad  fabric  of  some  long  enduring  error. 
Such  instances,  it  may  be  said,  are  exceedingly  rare ; — and  we 
grant  it.  But  though  it  would  be  preposterous  for  every  indi- 
vidual to  expect  to  influence  the  opinions  of  a  world,  there  are 
few,  indeed,  whose  sphere  is  so  contracted,  and  whose  character 
of  so  little  weight,  as  not  to  hold  some  ascendancy,  either  for 
good  or  for  evil,  over  the  minds  and  habits  of  others,  and 
through  them  over  another  and  wider  circle,  producing  effects, 
of  which,  they,  who  gave  the  first  impetus  to  the  sentiment, 
are  totally  unconscious.  Let  not  any  then  attempt  to  palliate 
or  excuse  an  error  of  which  they  are  conscious,  by  the  idle  and 
dangerous  plea,  that  they  harm  no  one  but  themselves.  They 


94  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

do  not — they  cannot  know  this — and  it  is  most  probably  as 
false  with  regard  to  others,  as  it  is  injurious  to  themselves. — 
It  is  scarcely  more  those  who  fill  a  high  and  conspicuous  station 
among  men — the  great,  the  wise  and  the  talented — who  exert 
a  controlling  force  over  general  character,  than  undistinguished 
woman  in  her  quiet  retirement.  And  if  through  perilous  and 
culpable  indolence,  or  wilful  carelessness,  she  neglects  the  duty 
and  the  power  assigned  her,  suffering  them  to  lie  dormant,  to 
be  exerted  only  as  chance  may  direct,  or  employed  for  selfish 
or  unworthy  purposes,  "  will  it  not  be  sin — sin  of  no  light 
grade  or  venial  character." 

Oh  let  her  seriously  reflect  upon  this, — let  her  consider  that 
what  appears  but  a  venial  fault  in  her  own  conduct,  may  be 
the  source  of  crime  and  misery  to  others ;  and  surely  she  will 
look  warily  to  her  way,  lest,  in  her  errors,  those  whom  she 
best  loves  may  be  led  astray  also. 


THE  SLAVE  TRADER. 


"A  Christian  broker  in  the  trade  of  blood — 
He  buys,  he  sells,  he  steals,  he  kills  for  gold.' 


THERE  is  no  character  which,  to  our  view,  presents  such  a 
mass  of  total  and  unmingled  depravity  as  that  of  the  slave  tra- 
der • — the  habitual  and  mercenary  dealer  in  the  bones  and  sin- 
ews of  his  fellow-beings.  All  the  qualities  that  we  most  hate, 
and  that  are  usually  divided  in  single  portions  through  a  whole 
community,  seem  in  him  alone  to  have  met  in  an  undivided 
band.  The  fierce  bandit  exhibits  in  his  reckless  career  a  spirit 
of  determined  daring,  not  unfrequently  mingled  with  flashes  of 
wayward  generosity ;  and  even  the  skulking  midnight  assassin 
needs  a  species  of  dogged  courage  to  support  him  in  his  dan- 
gerous course  of  guilt.  But  the  sanctioned  pirate  of  the  law, 
the  licensed  pedlar  in  blood  and  agony,  stands  secure  and  pro- 
tected in  his  hazardless  villany,  and  employs  the  safer  art  of 
transmuting  into  gold,  the  life-drops  of  those  who  can  seek  no 


THE    SLAVE    TRADER. TEA-TABLE    TALK.  95 

redress,  who  can  offer  no  defence  against  his  cruelty.  We 
detest  the  avaricious  wretch  who  can  wring  the  last  cent  from 
the  hand  of  sickness  and  poverty,  and  chuckle  as  he  adds  to 
his  heaped -up  store,  the  narrow  pittance  of  the  widow  and  the 
orphan.  Yet  when  he  dragged  down  into  poverty  and  distress, 
those  whom  he  might  have  made  blessed  and  happy,  he  left 
them  at  least  the  privilege  of  enduring  and  suffering  together. 
If  he  tore  away  the  last  paltry  coin  from  his  starving  debtor, 
he  did  not,  at  least,  lacerate  his  back  with  stripes  in  answer  to 
his  appeals  for  mercy.  But  the  slave-dealer — he  demanded 
the  payment  of  no  debt — he  tore  away  no  gold  from  the  hand 
of  his  victim.  It  was  the  heart  which  he  made  his  prey — and 
rifled  it  of  all  love,  all  hope,  all  the  brightness  of  life.  When 
the  wretched  father  of  a  family  knelt  before  him,  beseeching 
mercy  and  compassion,  he  did  not  coldly  bid  them  go  labour 
for  their  support,  but  he  wrenched  them  away  from  him  for- 
ever. When  the  agonized  mother  wept  before  him,  and  he  cast 
her  prayer  to  the  idle  winds,  it  was  not  to  petition  that  he 
would  leave  wherewith  to  provide  bread  for  her  children,  but 
that  he  would  leave  her  only  one,  of  all  her  infants,  upon 
which  to  pour  out  the  affections  of  her  bereaved  bosom.  And 
what  is  the  passion  that  urges  him  on  in  his  career  of  inhuman- 
ity and  crime?  Avarice!  mean,  heartless,  soul-destroying 
avarice !  The  same  thirst  of  gold  that  roots  every  finer  feeling 
from  the  bosom  of  the  grasping  miser — that  steels  the  heart  of 
the  felon  murderer — and  prompts  the  abandoned  "  wrecker"  to 
secure  his  spoil  by  plunging  the  knife  into  the  heart  of  the 
shipwrecked  mariner. 


TEA-TABLE  TALK. 

HELEN  AND  MARIA. 

"  DEAR  me,  Helen,  I  cannot  conceive  why  you  think  that 
taking  a  lump  of  sugar  in  your  tea,  or  eating  a  piece  of  cake, 
or  a  preserve,  can  do  any  harm  to  the  slaves.  And  when  you 
are  in  company  it  must  be  so  disagreeable,  and  look  so  singu- 
lar, to  decline  eating  almost  every  thing  that  is  offered  you  ! 
I  think  you  must  almost  starve  sometimes !" 

"  I  have  never  yet  been  driven  to  such  an  extremity,"  an- 


96  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

swered  her  friend,  smiling  ;  "  but  I  will  acknowledge  that  it  is 
certainly  very  disagreeable  to  be  obliged  so  frequently  to  dis- 
appoint the  kindness  of  my  friends  ;  neither  is  it  at  all  pleasant 
to  appear  singular  in  one's  notions,  which  however  is  not  now 
greatly  to  be  feared,  since  abstinence  from  slave  articles  has 
become  lately  quite  common.  But  even  if  that  was  not  the 
case,  my  reasons  are,  I  believe,  sufficiently  strong  to  render 
singularity  in  this  respect  entirely  proper,  and  to  enable  me  to 
bear  the  imputation  of  it  patiently." 

"  But  you  have  eaten  of  such  things  all  your  life,  till  lately, 
and  never  thought  it  wrong ;  and  all  the  rest  of  your  family 
make  use  of  them,  so  that,  begging  your  pardon,  cousin  Helen, 
I  cannot  think  it  otherwise  than  very  silly  for  you  to  make 
such  a  fuss  about  it  now." 

"  In  telling  me  that  I  have  made  use  of  slave  produce 
through  the  whole  of  my  life  until  lately,  you  have  mentioned 
an  excellent  reason,  my  dear  Maria,  why  I  should  patiently 
and  cheerfully  endure  any  privations  that  an  abstinence  from 
it  may  impose  upon  me  now.  But  because  I  have  done  wrong 
ignorantly,  or  because  those  whom  1  most  love  have  not  the 
same  views  with  myself  in  that  respect,  shall  I  continue  to  sin 
against  my  conscience  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  should  not,  if  the  use  of  slave  produce 
really  were  wrong,  or  could  be  done  without  altogether ; — but 
other  people  do  not  think  it  wrong,  and  why  should  you  be 
more  particular  1" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  think  it  wrong,  Maria  ?" 

"  Oh  !  now,  you  want  to  tell  me  some  horrid  story  about  the 
treatment  of  the  slaves.  I  do  not  know  how  you  can  bear  to 
think  and  talk  about  such  things." 

"  How,  then,  dear  Maria,  can  you  wonder  that  I  should  re- 
fuse to  assist  in  creating  them.  It  is  indeed  very  painful  to 
think  upon  the  vast  amount  of  suffering  produced  by  slavery, 
but  not  half  so  painful,  cousin,  as  to  assist  in  producing  it.  Do 
not  imagine  that  I  think  I  deserve  credit  for  my  abstinence  from 
slave  luxuries,  or  what  I  suppose  you  would  call  necessary 
articles.  I  claim  none — to  partake  of  them  would  be  to  me 
far  the  greater  punishment.  There  are  times  when  I  almost 
shudder  at  the  thought,  and  when  I  feel  as  if  I  could  almost 
as  easily  endure  the  taste  of  human  blood,  as  of  the  sweetness 


THE    SLAVE    TRADER.  97 

of  the  slave^grown  cane  !  It  is  wonderful  to  me  how  any  fe- 
male, who  has  even  a  partial  knowledge  of  the  horrors  of 
slavery,  can  be  willing  to  support  such  a  system,  or  can  receive 
the  least  enjoyment  from  the  indulgence  in  comforts  and  lux- 
uries which  are  purchased  by  the  sacrifice  of  so  many  lives. 
We  shudder  to  think  of  the  immolation  of  human  beings  by 
savage  nations,  at  the  altars  of  their  gods  ;  but  when  our  own 
gratification  is  in  question,  we  become  careless  of  the  poured - 
out  blood  of  thousands  !" 

"  Now  you  are  severe,  Helen  !  Do  you  think  I  would  con- 
tinue to  use  slave  produce,  especially  when  I  could  avoid  doing 
so  by  any  means,  if  I  thought  all  I  made  use  of  would  occasion 
the  loss  of  life  to  any  human  being  ?" 

"  Yet  you  must  acknowledge,  Maria,  for  I  believe  you  are 
aware  of  the  fact,  that,  even  excluding  those  who  have  sunk 
under  the  pressure  of  long  continued  toil  and  hardships,  the 
number  of  the  miserable  beings  who  have  been  deprived  of 
their  lives  by  actual  violence  is  immense.  And  the  cause  of 
slavery,  and  all  its  attendant  ills,  can  only  be  found  in  the  prof- 
its of  its  extorted  labour." 

"  But,  cousin,  all  the  slave  produce  I  should  use  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  Jife  would  make  no  difference  in  the  number  of 
slaves*  Abstinence  would  only  punish  myself,  without  any 
benefit  to  those  you  compassionate." 

"  The  articles  you  make  use  of  cannot  be  produced  without 
some  time  and  labour,  be  the  quantity  what  it  may.  Allowing 
the  labour  of  a  slave  for  six  or  twelve  years  to  produce  all  the 
various  slave-grown  products  which  you  may  use  during  the 
course  of  your  life,  would  not  he  who  was  so  occupied  be  in 
effect  your  slave,  during  the  time  he  was  thus  employed?  Do 
you  not  receive  as  much  benefit  from  his  oppression  as  the  in- 
dividual who  is  his  nominal  owner,  but  in  fact,  for  that  length 
of  time,  only  your  agent?  Nor  will  the  circumstances  of  this 
portion  of  labour,  being  divided  among  many  persons,  create 
any  difference.  You  must  excuse  me  for  considering  that  for 
the  time  that  is  necessary  to  produce  the  articles  you  consume, 
you  are  a  slave-holder  ;  or  that  you  are  doing  worse,  by  paying 
another  for  the  commission  of  a  crime  which  you  would  not 
dare  to  commit  yourself!" 

"  You  speak  very  plainly,  Helen  ;  but  I  will  not  be  offended, 


98  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL   ESSAYS. 

for  I  know  you  feel  strongly — nay,  I  will  even  acknowledge 
that  I  have  taken  my  last  cup  of  tea  without  sugar,  and  that 
it  was  not  so  very  disagreeable.  But  I  will  talk  no  more  upon 
the  subject  now,  only  to  say  that  if  I  was  fairly  convinced 
you  were  right,  I  believe  I  would  give  up  the  use  at  least  of 
slave  sugar." 


MATERNAL   INFLUENCE. 


"  The  immense  force  of  first  impressions  is  on  the  side  of  the  mother. 
In  the  moral  field  she  is  a  privileged  labourer.  Ere  the  dews  of  morning 
begin  to  exhale,  she  is  there.  She  breaks  up  a  soil  which  the  root  of  error 
and  the  thorns  of  prejudice  have  not  pre-occupied.  She  plants  germs 
whose  fruit  is  for  eternity." MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 


Is  there  one  among  our  maternal  readers  who  will  not  pause 
upon  the  above  impressive  lines,  to  reflect,  for  a  moment, 
on  the  awful  responsibility  of  her  station  ?  Will  not  the  name 
of  Africa  —  poor  injured  Africa  —  rise  to  her  thoughts,  and 
her  heart  swell,  and  her  eyes  moisten  with  the  high  resolve 
that  she,  at  least,  will  never  lead  the  young  beings  who  are 
sporting  by  her  side  to  become  instruments  in  the  work  of 
oppression?  Will  she  not  remember  that  the  fate  of  thou- 
sands may,  perhaps,  be  measurably  committed  to  her  hand — 
that  she  may  bring  the  rosy  lip,  now  running  over  with 
the  fulness  of  its  innocent  mirth,  to  pledge  holy  vows  at 
the  altar  of  Emancipation, 'and  that  all  its  eloquence  shall  be 
poured  out  in  the  defence  of  the  oppressed — or  that  her  tuition 
may  prepare  another  auxiliary  for  the  ranks  of  the  powerful 
oppressor.  Let  her  not  think  it  a  matter  of  indifference,  that 
they  should  now,  in  their  thoughtless  infancy,  be  the  innocent 
upholders  of  a  system  which  in  after  life  they  ought  to  abhor. 
A  misplaced  indulgence  now  may  make  the  beauties  of  life 
of  higher  consequence  to  them  than  the  rights  and  tears  of 
thousands ; — the  gratification  of  your  own  loving  vanity  in 
their  attire  may  render  of  no  avail  the  lessons  of  a  life-time. 
Do  not  say  it  would  be  folly  to  impose  such  restrictions  upon 
children.  Nothing  can  be  folly  which  teaches  them  the  noble 
virtue  of  self-denial  in  a  righteous  cause.  Teach  them  early 
to  pity  the  poor  slave.  Let  their  sacrifices  be  made  voluntarily  : 


MATERNAL    INFLUENCE. — IMPORTUNITY.  99 

as  they  will  be,  if  the  reason  and  feelings  have  been  trained 
properly  ;  and  they  will  not  be  felt  as  such.  Surely,  children 
cannot  be  too  early  taught  that  their  own  pleasures  should 
never  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  another.  It  is  a  lesson  that 
must  be  commenced  with  the  first  awakening  of  reason  to  be 
inculcated  efficiently,  and  when  ye  look  upon  them  in  the 
purity  of  their  early  years,  let  not  their  forms  be  arrayed  in  a 
garb  that  may  well  be  to  you  a  dark  omen  of  the  sin  that  will 
fling  its  evil  mantle  over  their  coming  hours. 


IMPORTUNITY. 

IT  appears. to  be  considered  no  small  grievance  by  some  of 
our  gentle  sisters,  that  the  subject  of  slavery  should  so  fre- 
quently be  forced  before  their  attention  by  the  friends  of  Eman- 
cipation. They  complain  that  it  is  but  little  short  of  persecution 
or  slavery  in  itself,  to  be  so  frequently  obliged  to  endure  re- 
monstrances on  their  inactivity,  to  be  so  perpetually  called  upon 
for  their  aid  and  sympathy,  or  so  often  reminded  of  what,  they 
are  told,  is  their  duty. 

To  us,  this  extreme  sensitiveness  seems  not  to  belong  to  con- 
sciences so  wholly  untouched  by  the  subject  as  they  would  be 
willing  to  appear.  Persons  are  not  usually  disturbed  at  the 
approach  of  what  is  totally  indifferent  to  them.  We  should 
rather  suppose  that  their  irritations  proceeded,  perhaps  truly 
unconsciously,  from  a  fear  that  such  troublesome  interference 
might  dissipate  the  slumbers,  which  they  have  been  at  some 
pains  to  force  upon  a  sense  of  duties  which  it  might  be  trouble- 
some to  perform.  Yet,  if  they  were  really  as  indifferent  as 
they  would  persuade  themselves  they  have  a  right  to  be,  that 
would  not  be  a  sufficient  reason  why  the  voice  of  remonstrance 
should  be  silenced.  Were  it  a  subject  that  concerned  only  the 
personal  gratification  of  the  pleaders,  then  indeed  their  friends 
might  justly  complain  if  they  were  wearied  with  importunity. 
But  this  is  not  the  case.  Opposition  to  slavery  is  not  .a  theme  to 
be  taken  up  merely  in  compliance  with  a  prevailing  fashion,  or 
an  individual  taste  or  inclination.  It  is  a  question  which  con- 
cerns the  vital  interests  of  millions  of  human  beings — of  thou- 
sands— of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  our  own  sex  ,*  and  those 


100  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

of  us  who  feel  that  the  influence  of  woman  must  and  will  be 
felt  in  its  discussion,  have  a  right  to  demand  that  it  should  be 
examined  patiently.  What !  are  we  to  behold  our  fellow-crea- 
tures suffering  and  oppressed — must  we  see,  as  it  were,  tears  of 
blood  wrung  out,  drop  by  drop,  from  the  crushed  hearts  of  our 
sisters,  and  yet  stifle  the  indignant  agony  of  our  own  bosoms, 
and  fear  to  lift  up  our  voices  in  their  behalf,  because  you  have 
grown  weary  of  the  harrowing  tale  of  their  anguish  ?  Shall 
we  smother  the  convictions  of  conscience,  and  silence  the 
promptings  of  humanity,  rather  than  intrude  a  disagreeable 
theme  upon  your  ear?  And  turning  to  the  helpless  beings 
whose  cause  our  God  and  our  religion  command  us  to  plead 
as  earnestly  as  if  it  were  our  own,  shall  we  tell  them,  as  the 
dim  eye  is  lifted  towards  us  in  passionate  supplication,  that  we 
are  conscious  our  united  efforts  would  release  them  from  their 
soul-destroying  bonds,  but  that  you  are  wearied  of  the  subject, 
and  we  like  not  to  press  it  upon  your  attention  !  Would  you 
not  condemn,  as  a  heartless  wretch,  the  individual  who  could 
act  thus  by  one  single  sufferer  ?  How  much  less  then  may  we 
so  betray  the  cause  of  thousands !  "  Strike  me,"  said  the 
Athenian  orator,  "  if  you  will  but  hear  me !"  and  shall  we  de- 
sist to  press  upon  your  attention  a  subject  of  far  greater 
moment  than  any  merely  political  one  that  was  ever  agitated, 
because  you  have  grown  impatient  of  the  often  repeated  topic  1 
No  !  we  must  still  again  and  again  present  it  before  you.  We 
must  not  cease  to  assail  you  with  our  importunity  till  weariness 
is  changed  into  interested  and  active  compassion.  If  your 
hearts  turn  sickening  away  from  the  thought  of  so  much 
wretchedness,  reflect,  then,  that  no  exertions,  no  sacrifices  of 
yours  can  be  too  great,  that  have  for  their  object  the  alleviation 
of  the  lot  of  those  who  are  actually  groaning  under  its  en- 
durance. Even  though  you  may  not  be  certain  of  success,  it 
is  worth  while,  at  least,  to  endeavour  to  do  good ;  and  should 
your  efforts  fall  short  of  their  desired  end,  you  will  be  amply 
rewarded  for  them  in  the  satisfaction  of  having  done  what  you 
could,  and  in  the  consciousness  that  your  brothers'  blood  will 
never  lie  with  a  burning  weight  upon  your  souls. 


REASONS    FOR    FLOGGING   THE   SLAVES.  101 

REASONS  FOR  FLOGGING  THE  SLAVES. 

To  those  whose  humane  feelings  have  not  been  utterly  de- 
based,  the  afflictions  of  suffering  nature,  when  the  heart  is 
bereaved  of  the  dearest  objects  of  its  affection,  appeal  with  an 
irresistible  claim  for  compassion  and  sympathy.  Who  will  not 
say  that  the  heart  must  be  dead  to  even  the  most  common  feel- 
ings of  humanity,  ere  it  can  witness  without  some  softening, 
the  grief  of  an  affectionate  child  for  the  loss  of  a  beloved  pa- 
rent? Who  would  not  shudder  to  make  the  sorrows  oif  a 
bereaved  wife  the  object  of  ridicule,  still  less  to  convert  the  na- 
tural exhibition  of  her  woe  into  an  offence  demanding  the 
infliction  of  a  barbarous  punishment?  What  mother,  bending 
over  the  cold  and  pale  brow  of  her  beautiful  and  loved,  would 
not  feel  it  an  inhuman  cruelty  to  be  denied  the  privilege  of  pour- 
ing out  her  grief  in  tears  and  lamentations  ?  And  how  still 
more  barbarous  would  such  a  restriction  seem  to  her,  if  instead 
of  resigning  her  darling  in  his  unspotted  innocence  into  the 
arms  of  God,  he  had  been  wrested  from  her  by  the  hand  of 
violence,  and  forced  far  and  forever  from  her  sheltering  arms, 
to  struggle  alone  beneath  all  the  bitterness  of  life,  and  die  at 
last  on  the  bosom  of  ignominy  ?  Yet  such  is  the  lot  of  the 
slave.  Not  only  are  all  the  dearest  and  strongest  ties  of  her 
heart  wantonly  rent  asunder,  but  the  gushing  forth  of  the  natu- 
ral feelings  of  her  affection  and  tenderness,  are  arrested  with 
cruel  punishment.  It  is  criminal  in  a  slave  to  sink,  heart- 
broken, under  oppression.  The  possession  of  the  best  and 
holiest  feelings  with  which  the  merciful  God  has  enriched  the 
human  heart,  is  assigned  as  a  reason  why  they  must  be  ranked 
with  the  stubborn  brutes,  and,  even  more  unmercifully  than 
they,  lacerated  with  the  horse-whip !  A  female  writer,  on  the 
subject  of  slavery  in  the  West  Indies,  says,  that  a  naval  officer, 
who  had  been  in  the  East  Indies,  was  trying  to  prove  to  her, 
"  that  the  negroes  must  be  flogged ;"  and  his  proof  was  this  : 
"  that  when  they  lose  a  father,  or  mother,  or  perhaps  a  lover, 
they  sulk,  (that  is,  they  are  broken-hearted,)  and  then  nothing 
will  do  but  fogging  them,  and  flogging  them  severely." 

Nor  is  it  only  in  the  West  India  Islands,  that  the  lash  is  thus 
used  to  silence  the  affecting  bursts  of  filial  or  maternal  sorrow. 
The  forms  of  a  million  females  in  our  own  country,  may  be 
made  to  bleed  and  writhe  beneath  the  barbarous  thong.  A 

12 


102  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

million  female  hearts  may  be  lacerated,  at  the  will  of  tyrant 
man,  by  being  wrenched  from  the  objects  of  their  fondest  love. 
Oh,  how  can  their  happier  sisters  lie  down  and  rise  up  with  the 
knowledge  of  these  things  upon  their  souls,  and  strive  not  to 
release  them  from  the  grasp  of  such  a  thraldom ! 


THE  PARTING. 

IT  has  been  well  and  beautifully  said  that  there  is  no  mecRJ 
cine  for  a  wounded  heart,  like  the  sweet  influences  of  Nature. 
The  broad,  still,  beautiful  expansion  of  a  summer  landscape — 
the  stealing  in  of  the  sunlight  by  glimpses  among  the  trees — 
the  unexpected  meeting  with  a  favourite  blossom,  half  hidden 
among  the  luxuriant  verdure — the  sudden  starting  of  a  wild 
bird,  almost  from  beneath  your  feet — the  play  of  light  and 
shade  upon  the  surface  of  the  gliding  brook,  and  the  ceaseless, 
glad,  musical  ripple  of  its  waters — the  gushing  melody  poured 
from  a  thousand  throats,  or  the  rapid  and  solitary  warble,  break- 
ing out  suddenly  on  the  stillness,  and  withdrawn  again  almost 
as  soon  as  heard — the  soft,  hymn-like  murmur  of  the  honey- 
bees^—and  above  all,  the  majesty  of  the  blue,  clear,  bending 
sky ! — from  all  these  steals  forth  a  spirit  of  calm  enjoyment, 
that  mingles  silently  with  the  darker  thoughts  of  the  heart,  and 
removes  their  bitterness. 

"If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset, 
With  sorrows  that  thou  wouldst  forget—- 
If thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson  that  will  keep 
The  heart  from  fainting,,  and  the  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  ! — no  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears.*' 

Yet  there  are  moods  of  the  soul,  that  even  the  ministering 
tenderness  of  Nature  cannot  brighten.  There  are  sorrows 
which  she  cannot  soothe,  and,  too  often,  alas !  darker  passions, 
which  all  her  sweet  and  balmy  influences  cannot  hush  into 
tranquillity.  When  the  human  heart  is  foul  with  avarice,  and 
the  unblest  impulses  of  tyranny,  the  eloquence  of  her  meek 
beauty  is  breathed  in  vain.  The  most  sublime  and  lovely 
scenes  of  nature  have  been  made  the  theatre  of  wrong  and 
violence  ;  and  the  stony  heart  of  the  oppressor,  though  sur* 


THE    PARTING.  103 

rounded  by  the  broad  evidences  of  omnipotent  love,  has  persist- 
ed, unrelenting,  in  the  selfishness  of  its  own  device. 

There  was  all  the  gloriousness  of  summer  beauty  round  the 
little  bay,  in  whose  sleeping  waters  rested  a  small  vessel,  almost 
freighted  for  her  departure.  A  few  human  beings,  only,  were 
to  be  added  to  her  cargo,  and  as  her  spiry  masts  caught  the  first 
rays  of  the  beaming  sunlight,  the  frequent  hoarse  and  brief 
command,  and  the  ready  response  of  the  seamen,  told  that  they 
were  about  to  weigh  anchor  and  depart.  Among  those  who 
approached  the  shore,  was  a  household  group,  a  mother  and 
her  babes,  the  price  of  whose  limbs  lay  heaped  in  the  coffers 
of  one  who  called  himself  a  Christian,  and  who  were  now 
about  to  be  torn  from  the  husband  and  the  father  forever.  It 
was  a  Christian  land  ;  and,  perchance,  if  the  bustle  of  the  de- 
parting vessel  had  not  drowned  its  murmur,  the  voice  of  praise 
and  prayer  to  the  merciful  and  just  God,  might  have  been 
dimly  heard  floating  off  upon  the  still  waters.  But  there  was 
no  one  to  save  those  unhappy  beings  from  the  grasp  of  unright- 
eous tyranny.  The  husband  had  been  upon  the  beach  since 
day-break,  pacing  the  sands  with  a  troubled  step,  or  lying  in 
moody  anguish  by  the  water's  edge,  covering  his  face  from  the 
breaking  in  of  the  glorious  sunlight,  and  pleading  at  times  with 
the  omnipotent  God,  whom,  slave  as  he  was,  he  had  learned  to 
worship,  for  strength  to  subdue  the  passionate  grief  and  indig- 
nation of  his  heart,  and  for  humility  patiently  to  endure  his 
many  wrongs. 

A  little  fond  arm  was  twined  about  his  neck,  and  the  soft 
lip  of  a  young  child  was  breathing  loving,  but  half  sorrowful 
kisses  all  over  his  burning  forehead. 

"  Father !  dear  father  !  we  are  going !  will  you  not  come 
with  us  1  look  where  my  mother,  and  my  sisters  and  brothers 
are  waiting  for  you." 

With  a  shuddering  and  convulsive  groan  the  unhappy  man 
arose,  and  lifted  the  frighted  child  to  his  bosom. 

"  Will  you  not  go  with  us,  father?"  repeated  the  boy:  but 
the  slave  made  him  no  answer,  except  by  straining  him  to  his 
bosom  with  a  short  bitter  laugh,  and  imprinting  one  of  his  sob- 
bing kisses  upon  his  cheek.  With  a  convulsive  effort  for  the 
mastery,  he  subdued  the  workings  of  his  features,  and  with  a 
seemingly  calm  voice  and  countenance,  approached  his  children. 
One  by  one  he  folded  them  in  his  arms,  and,  breathing  over 


104  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

them  a  prayer  and  a  blessing,  gave  them  up  forever.  Then 
once  more  he  strove  to  nerve  his  heart  for  its  severest  trial. — 
There  was  one  more  parting ; — one  more  sad  embrace  to  be 
given  and  returned. — There  stood  the  mother  of  his  children 
— his  own  fond  and  gentle  wife,  who  had  been  for  so  many 
years  his  heart's  dearest  blessing ;  and  who,  ere  one  short  hour 
had  passed,  was  to  be  to  him  as  if  the  sea  had  swallowed  her 
up  in  its  waves,  or  the  dark  gloomy  earth  had  hidden  her  be- 
neath  its  bosom  !  A  thousand  recollections  and  agonizing  feel- 
ings came  rushing  at  once  upon  his  heart,  and  he  stood  gazing 
on  her,  seemingly  bewildered  and  stupified,  motionless  as  a 
statue,  and  with  features  to  which  the  very  intensity  of  his  pas- 
sion gave  the  immobility  of  marble ;  till  suddenly  flinging  up 
his  arms  with  a  wild  cry,  he  dropped  at  once  senseless  to  the 
earth,  with  the  blood  gushing  in  torrents  from  his  mouth  and 
nostrils.  And  the  miserable  wife,  amid  the  shrieks  of  her  de- 
spair, was  hurried  on  board  the  vessel,  and  borne  away  from 
him,  over  the  calm,  sleeping,  and  beautiful  sea,  forever.* 


HUMAN  UNHAPPINESS. 


u  To  her  fair  work  did  nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think, 
What  man  has  made  of  man." 

WORDSWORTH. 


THERE  is  much  in  the  world  to  make  the  heart  sad.  Much 
poverty,  much  suffering,  much  guilt,  much  of  that  inward 
wretchedness  that  bows  down  the  soul  to  the  dust,  with  the 
weight  of  its  agony.  Even  amidst  the  loveliest  scenes  of  na- 
ture, when  the  heart,  touched  by  her  sweet  influences,  opens 
itself  to  the  balmy  spirit  of  happiness,  that  is  diffused  all  around, 
even  there  will  come  mingling  with  the  gush  of  its  emotions,  the 
thought  of  the  misery  that  rankles  in  the  bosoms  of  thousands. 
It  is  not  only  "  the  dark  places  of  the  earth"  that  "  are  full  of 
wickedness ;"  where  science  and  refinement  glow  with  the  bright- 

*  A  fact. 


HUMAN    UNHAPPINESS. HANNAH    KILHAM.  105 

est  lustre,  where  knowledge  has  been  poured  in  a  strong  flood 
over  the  human  mind,  where  the  altars  of  the  Christian  religion 
have  been  raised  to  the  worship  of  the  Most  High,  and  where  the 
lives  of  thousands  have  been  shed,  like  autumn  leaves,  in  de- 
fence of  liberty — there,  even  there,  are  shackled  millions ! 
There  "  man  has  made  of  man  a  slave,"  an  implement  of  la- 
bour, a  thing  to  be  tasked,  and  scourged,  and  sold,  at  his  plea- 
sure !  Nor  is  this  all — nor  the  worst.  There  is  the  tearing 
asunder  of  all  the  heart-strings,  when  at  the  command  of  mam- 
mon, all  the  ties  of  life  are  violently  broken,  that  the  price  of 
human  limbs  may  heap  the  coffers  of  the  oppressor.  Nor  is 
this  yet  all.  There  is  the  degradation,  the  compelled  ignorance, 
the  abasement  of  the  high  intellectual  faculties,  from  which 
escape  is  utterly  hopeless.  All  these  are  concomitants  of 
American  slavery — of  that  slavery  which  is  contemplated  with- 
out abhorrence — certainly  without  any  effort  for  its  removal, — 
by  thousands  of  females,  though  they  are  aware  what  multi- 
tudes of  their  own  sex  are  prostrated  under  this  cruel  load  of 
oppression. 


HANNAH  KILHAM, 

THE    ENGLISH    FEMALE    PHILANTHROPIST. 

THERE  is  much  in  the  character  of  this  noble-hearted  woman 
that  deeply  interests  our  feelings.  The  high  philanthropy  of 
her  spirit,  and  the  unwearied  zeal  with  which  she  gave  herself 
to  the  pursuance  of  its  dictates,  are  worthy  of  all  honour. 
We  behold  her,  day  by  day,  with  a  patience  and  perseverance 
that  difficulty  could  not  exhaust,  nor  fatigue  subdue,  devoting 
herself  to  the  study  of  the  African  languages,  that  she  might 
carry  light  and  knowledge  to  a  land  of  darkness  and  ignorance, 
and  to  those  for  whom  all  the  nations  of  Christendom  had  united 
in  mingling  a  cup  of  degradation  and  bitterness.  We  behold 
her  resigning  without  a  murmur  the  dearly  cherished  comforts 
of  home  and  friends,  and,  undeterred  by  the  hardships  to  be 
endured,  unappalled  by  the  pestilential  nature  of  the  climate, 
devoting  herself,  if  need  be,  to  die  for  the  cause  in  which  she 
had  embarked.  What  a  beautiful  picture  do  the  extracts  from 
some  of  her  letters  present !  Surrounded  by  her  young  charge, 
many  of  them  just  rescued  from  the  poisonous  hold  of  a  slave- 


106  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL   ESSAYS. 

ship,  we  behold  her  endeavouring  to  instil  into  their  minds  les- 
sons of  moral  and  intellectual  brightness — watching  with  affec- 
tionate earnestness  over  the  unfolding  of  their  mental  natures, 
and  seeking  to  turn  their  minds  to  the  source  from  which  she 
herself  sought  direction  and  assistance  in  her  arduous  task. 
With  what  affectionate  interest  does  she  speak  of  them  ! — the 
portals  of  her  heart  were  not  rudely  barred  against  them  because 
their  brows  were  darker  than  her  own  !  Then  came  the  closing 
scene.  It  is  ever  an  awful  thing  to  die,  yet  there  are  times 
and  circumstances  by  which  even  a  death-bed  may  be  illumined 
with  a  solemn  brightness  and  beauty.  When  the  Christian  lies 
down  to  the  sleep  of  the  grave,  surrounded  by  those  he  loves, 
and  trusts  ere  long  to  embrace  again — when  the  hand  of  affec- 
tion supports  the  failing  frame — when  the  soft,  fragrant  airs 
of  evening  come  stealing  in  to  dry  the  moisture  from  the  cold 
brow — when  even  the  aspect  of  the  beautiful  earth  seems  to 
tell  of  a  still  brighter  and  better  world,  and  the  clear  ambered 
sky  of  the  sunset  seems  like  an  opening  gate  leading  to  para- 
dise— there  is,  at  least,  for  the  weakness  of  humanity,  a  sooth- 
ing in  their  soft  influences ;  and  the  heart  even  of  the  Chris- 
tian may  shrink  less  from  the  gloomy  passage  of  the  grave, 
when  light  is  thus  gleaming  in  at  both  its  portals.  But  to  be 
smitten  with  sickness,  destitute  of  almost  all  the  comforts  it 
requires,  far  from  home  and  the  tenderness  of  those  to  whom 
the  heart  is  turning  with  irrepressible  affection,  to  languish  in 
a  sultry  atmosphere,  and  on  the  bosom  of  the  great  deep,  with 
the  flapping  sail  overhead,  and  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  seamen 
breaking  in  upon  the  few  intervals  of  repose — thus  to  be  hur- 
ried off  to  the  grave  by  the  swift  stroke  of  pestilence,  lends 
even  death  a  more  fearful  aspect.  It  was  thus  she  died — died 
in  the  cause  of  a  noble  philanthropy.  And  her  name  should 
be  as  a  rallying  word  to  urge  on  her  sex  to  pursue  the  task  of 
alleviating  the  condition  and  elevating  the  minds  of  the  long 
oppressed  race  of  Africa. 


SPRING. THE    VOICE    OP   CONSCIENCE.  107 

SPRING. 

IT  is  the  season  of  gladness — exulting,  abounding  gladness. 
There  is  joy  over  all  the  face  of  the  earth.  Joy  in  the  breeze 
and  in  the  sunshine — in  the  springing  of  every  green  blade, 
and  the  unfolding  of  every  blossom  ;  joy  in  the  broad  stretch 
of  the  smiling  heavens ;  joy  over  the  mountain  tops,  and  in  the 
quiet  depths  of  the  "  green-haired  valleys."  It  is  poured  out 
on  the  air  in  the  song  of  the  birds,  in  the  hum  of  the  awakened 
insects,  in  the  perfume  of  the  thousand  flowers.  The  fetter- 
less streams  have  caught  its  influence,  and  go  carolling  along 
their  pleasant  paths,  and  tossing  up  their  tiny  waves  to  the 
smiling  sunbeams.  It  is  well  for  the  human  heart  to  be  open- 
ed to  these  pleasant  influences  ;  well  to  suffer  them  to  steal  in 
and  perform  their  allotted  ministering  offices  there,  till  it  is 
insensibly  won  from  its  wonted  selfishness,  into  a  better  and 
holier  nature.  If  the  gloriousness  and  beauty  of  the  creation 
declare  to  us,  all  over  the  earth,  that  God  is  love,  they  should 
also  impress  upon  the  heart,  the  sinfulness  of  aiding,  be  it  as 
indirectly  as  it  may,  in  the  oppression  of  his  children.  They 
should  teach  us  sympathy  for  the  miserable,  and  fill  us  with 
earnest  desires  for  the  moral  and  intellectual  improvement  of 
all  the  human  race.  They  should  speak  to  every  bosom  of  the 
claims  of  the  wronged  slave,  and  bid  every  hand  engage  in 
the  task  of  loosening  his  fetters. 


THE  VOICE  OF  CONSCIENCE. 

IT  is  frequently  urged  as  a  plea  for  indifference  and  inaction 
with  regard  to  Emancipation,  that  the  mind  has  never  been 
particularly  impressed  with  the  subject,  and  that  the  conscience 
has  always  remained  at  rest  concerning  it.  But  this  we  do  not 
conceive  to  be  by  any  means  a  valid  argument,  unless  we 
have  diligently  called  upon,  and  carefully  attended  to  the 
suggestions  of  the  mental  counsellor.  Conscience  does  not 
always  give  her  advice  unasked ;  we  sometimes  walk  blindly 
in  a  wrong  path  ;  but,  though  we  may  perhaps  be  held  guilt- 
less, so  long  as  we  remain  unconsciously  slumbering,  yet,  if 
we  obstinately  turn  away  from  the  hand  that  would  awaken 
us,  and  refuse  to  open  our  eyes  that  we  may  discover  whether 


108  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

light  or  darkness  is  around  us,  surely,  we  are  not  less  culpable 
than  if  we  knowingly  persisted  in  error. 

There  seems  to  be  prevalent,  a  strange  opinion,  that  it  is  in- 
cumbent upon  none  to  become  advocates  for  the  rights  of  hu- 
manity, in  the  persons  of  the  enslaved  Africans,  but  those  who 
have  received  an  especial  intimation  of  their  duty  in  that  re- 
spect; that  the  productions  of  slavery,  which  are  undeniably 
its  foundation  and  support,  may  be  freely  partaken  of  by  all 
but  those  to  whom  they  have  been  forbidden  in  a  voice  that 
might  not  be  gainsayed.  In  other  things  we  listen  to  the  tones 
of  reason,  we  seek  her  guidance  to  the  gate  of  conscience,  and  ask 
her  interpretation  of  the  hidden  responses  of  the  bosom  oracle. 
Shall  we  not  then,  in  like  manner,  expect  to  be  enlightened  in 
this  matter,  by  a  patient  investigation  and  search  after  know- 
ledge ?  We  know  that  many  persons  have  been  called  from 
a  life  of  sin  and  disobedience,  by  the  terrible  voice  of  God, 
sounding  like  a  clear  trumpet-note  to  the  innermost  recesses  of 
their  bosoms.  But  who  would  therefore  be  so  mad,  as  to  sup- 
pose that  we  may  with  impunity  persist  in  a  course  of  impiety, 
until  an  irresistible  summons  comes  to  turn  us  from  our  path, 
as  to  Saul  of  Tarsus,  at  the  broad  noon-day?  So  neither  have 
we  any  reason  to  believe,  that  a  particular  revelation  will  be 
vouchsafed  to  us  with  regard  to  our  conduct  here.  If  the  sys- 
tem is  repugnant  to  the  known  general  laws  of  religion  and 
morality  ;  if  it  is  contrary  to  the  written  commands  of  God, 
and  to  those  which  are  whispered,  in  the  heart's  silent  hour,  to 
the  spiritual  ear,  then  we  know  of  a  truth  it  must  be  wicked- 
ness; and  it  follows,  as  a  natural  and  inevitable  consequence, 
that  we  are  called  upon  to  lend  our  influence  to  its  destruction, 
and  that  we  cannot  innocently  in  any  way  be  partakers  therein. 
We  know  that  the  enslaved  negroes  are  human  beings  ; — our 
brethren  and  our  sisters  ;  that  they  are  "  sick  and  an  hungered, 
and  in  prison,"  and  shall  we  dare  to  assert  that  our  duty  does 
not  require  us  "  to  minister  unto  them,"  till  we  have  received 
a  particular  command  to  do  so?  There  are  others  who  seem 
to  fear  to  enter  lightly  and  with  unconsecrated  foot  upon  a  field 
which  presents  a  work  of  such  magnitude,  that  God's  own 
hand  seems  only  competent  to  the  completion  of  the  task. 
And  if  it  were  only  a  labour  of  religious  reformation — one  of 
those  mighty  overthrowings  which  sometimes  take  place  when 
the  finger  of  the  Almighty  is  at  work  secretly  in  the  myste- 


MEN-SELLING.  109 

rious  depths  of  the  human  bosom,  then  might  we  indeed  justly 
dread  to  lay  unhallowed  hands  upon  the  "Ark  of  the  Cove- 
nant." But  this  is  a  plain  question  of  Christian  duty.  The 
simple  performance  of  a  right  action — no  more  involving  the 
danger  of  an  officious  interference,  than  the  thousand  benefi- 
cent deeds  for  which  we  uniformly  bestow  the  tribute  of  our 
applause  on  others,  or  receive  the  reward  of  an  approving  con- 
science in  ourselves.  As  reasonably  might  we  hesitate  to 
perform  the  commonest  duties  of  humanity,  because  our  hands 
were  not  clear  of  all  evil,  as  to  make  our  imperfections  an  ex- 
cuse for  suffering  our  brethren  to  remain  unaided  in  their  bond- 
age. The  rule  upon  which  we  are  to  act,  was  long  since  pro- 
mulgated. It  is  written  upon  every  page  of  the  Christian  reli- 
gion— it  is  graven  upon  a  broad  scroll  of  light  in  words  that 
may  be  read  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  universe.  "All 
things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto  you,  even 
so  do  ye  unto  them:  and  thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour  as 
thyself." 


MEN-SELLING. 

SLAVERY  !  what  a  name  for  Christian  lips !  what  a  fraternal 
greeting  from  the  lips  of  freemen.  I  rose  up  as  if  from  a 
dream.  I  had  looked  upon  the  advertisement  till  my  eyes 
grew  dim  and  my  senses  bewildered.  I  knew  it  was  not  a 
strange  thing — I  had  seen  such,  although  not  frequently,  be- 
fore; but  I  had  not,  perhaps,  perfectly  caught  their  import,  for 
I  repeated  the  words  now  again  and  again,  without  a  full  com- 
prehension of  their  meaning.  They  spoke  of  a  sale  of  human 
beings  with  all  the  heartless  and  accustomed  terms  of  trade  ; 
men,  women,  and  children  were  to  be  disposed  of  at  auction 
to  the  highest  bidder.  How  could  it  be?  In  what  hatj.  these 
miserable  beings  forfeited  the  rights  of  humanity  1  Had  the 
Almighty  resumed  his  benefaction,  and  given  them  to  be  a 
spoil  for  those  whom  he  had  once  made  their  brethren  ?  Were 
they  no  longer  possessed  of  the  high  capacities  of  an  undying 
nature — had  their  destiny  been  changed,  and  a  new  portion 
assigned  them,  so  that  they  were  not  in  this  life  to  win  an 
eternity  of  future  bliss  or  misery  ?  Such  might  have  seemed 
to  be  their  lot,  from  the  fate  that  awaited  them.  They  were 
to  be  sold  and  purchased  as  chattels — mere  implements  of 

K 


110  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

labour ;  they  were  to  drudge  out  a  life  of  toil  like  the  laborious 
ox,  with  whom  they  were  classed  in  fellowship ;  their  days 
were  to  wear  away  without  a  consciousness  of  their  capabilities 
of  mind,  without  knowledge,  without  thought,  without  religion. 
And  yet  these  beings  were  men !  men  upon  whom  a  merciful 
Creator  had  bestowed  the  boon  of  an  immortal  nature ;  whose 
souls  had  been  kindled  from  the  same  spark  as  that  which  gave 
animation  to  the  haughty  forms  of  their  oppressors.  They  were 
human  beings,  and  they  who  bought  and  they  who  sold  them, 
were  in  form  and  fashion  like  unto  themselves.  Nay,  they 
called  upon  one  God  as  their  mutual  Father,  —  upon  one 
Saviour  for  redemption  and  everlasting  life.  Was  it  strange 
that  I  should  gaze  with  a  sick  incredulity  upon  the  paper  which 
gave  evidence  of  such  broad  and  heartless  contempt  of  the 
divine  law,  and  of  the  commonest  dictates  of  humanity. 


WELL-WISHERS. 

THERE  is  a  class  of  persons  professedly  favourable  to  the 
cause  of  emancipation,  who  nevertheless  content  themselves 
with  vague  hopes  and  wishes  for  the  discontinuance  of  slavery, 
at  some  indefinite  period,  without  once  attempting  to  hasten  the 
hour  of  its  approach,  by  any  thing  like  active  exertion.  They 
are  perfectly  willing  that  the  good  work  of  emancipation  should 
be  accomplished—that  millions  of  their  fellow-creatures  should 
be  raised  from  the  miserable  condition  of  beasts  of  burden,  to 
the  rank  of  men,  and  useful  citizens — provided,  only,  that  such 
consent  involves  nothing  like  personal  exertion,  no  possible  in- 
convenience to  themselves,  during  the  process  of  this  trans- 
formation. They  acknowledge  the  deep  iniquity  of  the  system 
of  slavery,  but  they  act  as  if  the  admission  of  its  criminality, 
instead  of  being  merely  prefatory  to  amendment,  was  amply 
sufficient  of  itself  to  satisfy  all  the  demands  of  justice,  to 
silence  all  the  reproaches  of  conscience.  They  appear  to  have 
one  species  of  justice  for  their  theory,  and  another,  vastly 
lower  in  its  standard,  for  actual  practice ;-— or  rather,  the  high 
and  true  rule  of  moral  equity  by  which  they  mete  out  justice 
between  themselves,  swerve  instantly  from  their  even  measure, 
when  the  rights  of  their  sable  brethren  are  brought  into  com- 
petition with  their  own  convenience,  or  their  prejudices.  Cer- 


WELL-WISHERS. A   PRISON    SCENE.  Ill 

tainly,  say  they,  every  man  has  a  just  and  natural  right  to  his 
own  person,  and  to  the  control  of  his  own  conduct,  so  long  as 
it  interferes  not  with  the  well-being  of  others,  Yet  should  the 
ancestors  of  any  individual,  unfortunately  guilty  of  having 
been  gifted  by  his  Maker  with  a  sable  brow,  have  been  violently 
wrenched  in  some  terrible  scene  of  ruin  and  conflagration  from 
their  native  home,  and  having  been  dragged  to  some  distant 
land,  there  sold  into  perpetual  bondage — then,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, the  right  of  the  individual  to  his  own  flesh  and 
sinews,  or  of  the  Creator  to  the  being  whom  he  has  made,  is 
superseded  and  invalidated  by  the  claims  of  one  who  hath 
bought  him  for  money,  or  received  him  as  a  lawful  inheritance ; 
and,  although  we  regard  with  horror  the  idea  of  trafficking  in 
human  flesh,  or  holding  our  fellow-men  in  a  state  of  slavery, 
yet  we  would  not  be  so  unjust  as  to  wish  rashly  to  deprive  the 
slaveholders  of  their  property.  We  know  that  the  employ- 
ment of  free  labourers  would  be  much  more  advantageous  to 
the  planter,  but  we  can  convince  him  of  this  only  by  practical 
experiment ;  and  it  is  not  worth  while  for  us  to  undergo  the 
expense  and  inconvenience  of  obtaining  free  articles,  unless 
every  one  else  would  do  the  same.  So  stands  the  argument ; 
and  so,  were  it  committed  to  their  hands,  would  the  destinies 
of  the  slave  stand  unaltered  for  ages,  unless  some  terrible  con- 
vulsion, like  the  sudden  springing  of  a  mine,  should  at  once 
tear  asunder  the  bonds  of  the  slave,  and  overwhelm  his  master 
beneath  the  falling  ruins  of  his  wall  of  oppression. 


A   PRISON  SCENE. 

THERE  is  much  said  of  the  misery  induced  by  the  internal 
slave  trade ;  tale  after  tale  is  repeated  of  the  separation  of 
families — of  the  dearest  ties  of  the  affections  violently  broken — 
of  hearts  closely  allied  in  their  natural  affinities,  as  the  leaves 
that  flourish  upon  one  bough,  torn  rudely  asunder  and  left  to 
bleed  and  wither  far  distant  from  each  other  and  from  the 
parent  stem  that  nourished  them.  Yet,  terrible  as  are  the  catas- 
trophes which  sometimes  arise  out  of  such  scenes,  we  believe 
they  seldom  come  before  the  heart  in  the  startling  vividness  of 
reality.  The  ear  has  been  so  long  habituated  to  the  repulsive 
terms  of  slavery,  that  it  almost  ceases  to  regard  them ;  and 


112  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

the  mention  of  a  sale  of  human  beings  is  heard  by  many  per- 
sons with  as  little  emotion  as  if  they  were  unbreathing  chattels. 
To  others,  the  very  enormity  of  the  circumstance  gives  it  an 
air  of  unreality.  The  reason  may  yield  an  unwilling  assent 
to  the  facts,  butthe  imagination  turns  loathing  away  from  the 
view  of  so  detestable  a  traffic,  and  the  mind  refuses  to  receive 
the  comprehension  of  such  a  scene.  To  some,  indeed,  the  ex- 
istence, at  the  present  day,  of  so  foul  a  disgrace  to  our  country, 
is  almost  unknown.  The  abolition  of  the  foreign  slave-trade 
is  conceived  to  have  removed  from  slavery  the  most  objection- 
able features,  and  they  are  not  aware  that  piratical  traders 
abroad,  and  regular  unblushing  dealers  in  human  flesh  and 
sinews  in  our  own  land,  still  pour  out  to  the  children  of  Africa 
a  cup  of  intolerable  cruelty. 

These  reflections  were  suggested  by  our  accidentally  meeting 
the  other  day  with  a  short  narration  of  the  following  circum- 
stance. A  gentleman  who  visited  the  prison  in  Washington 
City,  found  in  one  of  the  cells  a  negro  mother  and  three  chil- 
dren, who  had  been  brought  from  Maryland,  and  were  confined 
there  for  sale.  They  were  offered  in  "  one  lot,"  or  for  the 
accommodation  of  purchasers  they  would  be  parted  and  dis- 
posed of  separately  to  different  individuals.  Upon  enquiring 
more  particularly  into  their  history,  the  gentleman  found  that 
she  was  the  mother  of  nine  children,  and  the  wife  of  a  free 
man.  He  had  toiled  industriously  and  hard  to  provide  for  his 
family,  and  as  they  grew  of  an  age  to  satisfy  the  rapacious 
cravings  of  the  monster  who  claimed  them  for  his  prey,  the 
children  had  been  torn  one  by  one  from  the  sheltering  arms  of 
parental  affection,  and  sold  into  a  distant  captivity.  At  last 
his  wife,  and  his  three  only  remaining  ones,  were  snatched 
away,  and  he  was  left,  in  his  declining  years,  alone  and  deso- 
late, to  weep  beside  his  forsaken  hearth-stone. 

And  she — to  whose  woman's  heart  had  come  all  that  weight 
of  unutterable  suffering — what  was  to  be  her  future  lot? 
Were  the  loving  eyes  that  she  had  gazed  upon  so  long,  and 
the  soft  voices  whose  tones  she  had  treasured  up  in  her  heart 
till  they  had  become  her  world  of  happiness,  to  be  seen  and 
heard  no  more  forever?  Who  could  know  the  agony  of  her 
bereaved  spirit,  as  she  sat  amid  the  dark  loneliness  of  that 
damp  cell !  who  could  tell  what  images  of  despair  were  gather- 
ing with  a  horrid  distinctness  about  her  brain,  as  the  thought 


CONSUMERS.  113 

of  a  still  further  separation  came  upon  her  soul,  when  the  hol- 
low echo  of  an  approaching  foot-fall  caught  her  ear,  and  with 
a  wild  shriek  she  sprang  forward  and  clasped  her  infants  to 
her  bosom  as  if  she  would  have  hidden  them  in  the  very  centre 
of  her  heart  from  the  grasp  of  the  spoiler  !  And  can  woman 
— free,  happy,  cherished  woman — think  unmoved  upon  these 
things?  She  whose  compassionate  nature  is  moved  for  the 
sufferings  of  the  lowest  of  the  animal  creation  ;  whose  sympa- 
thy may  be  won  upon  even  by  the  passing  grief  of  happy 
childhood !  Surely  she  will  not  forget  the  tears  shed  openly 
and  in  secret  by  her  victim  sister  under  the  stinging  lash,  over 
the  unaccomplished  task  at  hot  noon-day,  in  the  silence  of  the 
dark  midnight,  upon  the  faces  of  the  doomed  infants,  and  amid 
the  silence  of  the  gloomy  prison  cell,  where,  though  guiltless 
of  crime,  she  has  been  made  to  share  the  abode  and  the  pun- 
ishment of  the  criminal. 


CONSUMERS. 

*'  THE  enormous  crimes  and  miseries  inseparable  from  the 
system  of  slave  cultivation  have  at  length  been  fully  exposed  ; 
henceforth  the  guilty  responsibility  of  slave-holding  rests  with 
the  consumer  of  slave  produce.  Let  conscience,  therefore,  do 
her  office,  and  fix  the  conviction  of  blood-guiltiness  in  our  own 
bosoms." 

That  if  there  were  no  consumers  of  slave  produce,  there 
would  be  no  slaves,  is  an  axiom  too  self-evident  to  the  meanest 
capacity,  to  require  us  to  use  a  single  argument  in  its  demon- 
stration. But  that  the  class  of  consumers  share  equally  in  the 
guilt  of  slavery  with  those  who  are  the  more  immediate  up- 
holders of  the  system,  will  not  probably,  by  the  multitude,  be 
so  readily  admitted,  Even  while  they  acknowledge  themselves 
to  be  the  main  supporters  of  this  scheme  of  oppression,  they 
would  exonerate  themselves  from  any  portion  of  its  turpitude ; 
as  if  it  were  possible  for  them  to  be  innocent  of  a  crime  of 
which  they  are  wilfully  the  cause  !  Can  they  employ  another 
in  the  commission  of  evil,  enjoy  the  advantage  of  his  villany, 
and  yet  suppose  that  the  stain  of  iniquity  clings  only  to  him 
who  was  but  the  agent  of  their  will  ?  Were  they  disinterested 
reasoners,  we  think  such  would  not  be  their  decision.  Their 


114  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

own  hands  do  not,  it  is  true,  wield  the  blood-extorting  lash,  or 
rivet  the  fetter,  but  they  know  that  it  is  done  by  others,  in  or- 
der to  afford  at  the  cheapest  rate  the  luxuries  which  they  will 
neither  resign,  nor  make  one  exertion  to  obtain  from  the  hands 
of  freemen.  They  have  no  hesitation  in  branding  the  trafficker 
in  human  flesh  with  the  stigma  of  shame  and  cruelty  ;  but  while 
they  would  not  for  the  universe  engage  personally  in  the  exer- 
cise of  so  much  barbarity,  they  will  not  relinquish  one  single 
iota  of  the  comforts  it  procures  for  them.  Is  this  consistency? 
Is  such  fastidiousness  the  result  of  humanity  ; — or  has  it  not 
rather,  if  fairly  examined,  its  root  in  mere  selfishness?  Their 
education  has  unfitted  them  for  mingling  actively  in  scenes  of 
cruelty;  they  would  sicken  and  shudder  at  the  sight  of  wantonly 
shed  blood,  and  the  agonizing  cries  of  a  breaking  heart  would 
frighten  sleep  from  their  pillows,  or  were  like  a  haunting  spirit 
to  their  dreams.  Is  it  so  vastly  meritorious,  then,  to  consign 
to  other  hands  what  would  be  revolting  to  their  feelings?  Or 
may  such  sensibility  claim  its  spring  from  the  nobler  principles 
of  beneficence  and  justice,  while  they  unhesitatingly  receive 
from  the  hands  of  another,  that  which  they  have  not  nerve 
enough  to  obtain  for  themselves  ?  Let  them  remember  when 
they  execrate  the  enormities  of  the  slave  system,  that  it  is 
themselves  who  hold  out  the  inducements  for  their  perpetration. 
Guilty  as  the  slave-holder  may  be,  let  them  not  flatter  them- 
selves that  he  alone  is  guilty.  To  them  the  criminality  and 
hideousness  of  slavery  are  clearly  discernible.  But  he  is  men- 
tally benighted.  The  bribe  which  they  have  given  him,  the 
unrighteous  mammon,  "  hath  perverted  his  judgment."  He  is 
compassed  about  with  the  iron  bands  of  prejudice, — he  fancies 
that  to  break  the  fetters  of  his  slaves  would  be  to  insure  his 
own  ruin. — But  it  is  the  purchasers  of  his  ill-gotten  produce, 
who  have  woven  around  him  this  filmy  web  of  prejudice.  Let 
them  but  make  it  his  interest  to  be  just,  and  his  moral  percep- 
tions will  be  clear  as  the  day-light.  Emancipation  will  no 
longer  appear  to  him  a  visionary  scheme,  ruinous  and  imprac- 
ticable. His  opinions  will  be  grounded  on  wiser  and  juster 
reasoning,  and  he  will  make  haste  to  render  back  their  liberty 
to  those  from  whom  he  has  so  long  withheld  it.  He  who  clings 
with  so  tenacious  a  grasp  to  his  gathered  stores  of  human 
wealth,  while  we  hate  his  crime,  may  claim  our  pity  for  his 
self-delusion  and  his  unhappy  situation.  But  what  have  those 


INFLUENCE  OF  SLAVERY  ON  THE  FEMALE  CHARACTER.   115 

to  advance  in  behalf  of  their  heartless  conduct,  who,  with  the 
full  light  of  conviction  around  them,  obstinately  persist  to  abet 
him  in  his  error?  Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  beyond  the 
miserable  and  even  criminal  plea  of  self-convenience,  or  a  dis- 
inclination to  encounter  a  trivial  portion  of  salutary  self-denial  1 
— And  they,  who  can  so  lightly  weigh  their  own  gratification 
against  the  intolerable  anguish  of  their  sister's  lot, — who  count 
the  sacrifice  of  a  few  paltry  luxuries,  too  vast  a  ransom  for  the 
redemption  of  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  their  fellow- 
creatures  from  a  fate  of  servitude  and  darkness,  are  the  good, 
the  amiable,  and  the  gentle  of  the  earth.  Such  a  maze  of  in- 
consistency is  the  human  heart !  We  could  fling  away  the  pen, 
and  weep  in  very  shame  and  bitterness  for  the  hard-heartedness 
of  our  sex.  One  would  suppose  that  the  bare  knowledge  of 
the  terrible  price  at  which  those  cherished  comforts  have  been 
procured,  would  cause  a  woman  to  turn  shuddering  and  loath- 
ingly  away  as  though  they  were  infected  with  a  taint  of  blood. 
And  the  curse  of  blood  is  upon  them  !  Though  the  dark  red 
stain  may  not  be  there  visibly,  yet  the  blood  of  all  the  many 
thousands  of  the  slain,  who  have  died  amid  the  horrors  and 
loathsomeness  of  the  slave-ship — been  hurled  by  capricious 
cruelty  to  the  yawning  wave,  or  sprang  to  its  bosom  in  the 
madness  of  their  proud  despair — of  those  who  have  pined  away 
to  death  beneath  the  slow  tortures  of  a  broken  heart,  who  have 
perished  beneath  the  tortures  of  inventive  tyranny,  or  on  the 
ignominous  gibbet — all  this  lies  with  a  fearful  weight  upon  this 
most  foul  and  unnatural  system,  and  that  insatiable  thirst  for 
luxury  and  wealth  in  which  it  first  originated,  and  by  which  it 
is  still  perpetuated. 


INFLUENCE  OF  SLAVERY  ON  THE  FEMALE  CHARACTER. 

THIS  is  not  one  of  the  least  important  points  of  view,  in 
which  we  are  all  called  upon  to  examine  the  effects  of  slavery. 
On  the  right  formation  of  the  female  character  depends  so 
much,  not  only  of  her  own  happiness,  but  of  the  well-being 
of  all  who  are  nearly  connected  with  her,  that  whatever  cir- 
cumstances possess  the  power  of  moulding  her  mind  and  habits, 
imperatively  demand  a  careful  examination.  The  debasing 


116  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

effects  of  slavery  on  those  who  are  its  victims,  are  too  painfully 
obvious  to  require  a  portraiture.  On  these,  therefore,  we  need 
not  dwell,  but  may  turn  at  once  to  their  fairer,  and  more  fortu- 
nate sisters. 

It  is  on  all  sides  acknowledged,  that  the  domestic  circle  is 
the  proper  sphere  of  woman.  We  do  not  say  that  her  talents 
and  influence  should  be  confined  within  these  boundaries,  but 
however  beneficially  they  may  be  felt  abroad,  if  homebred  use- 
fulness forms  no  part  of  her  character,  be  her  claims  on  our 
respect  and  admiration  what  they  may,  she  fails  of  one  half 
of  her  perfection.  A  knowledge  of  '  household'  good  is  one  of 
the  most  essential  branches  of  female  education.  "  I  will  ven- 
ture to  affirm,"  says  the  venerable  Hannah  More,  "  that  let  a 
woman  know  what  she  may,  yet  if  she  knows  not  this,  she  is 
ignorant  of  the  most  indispensable,  the  most  appropriate  branch 
of  female  knowledge."  It  is  not  in  the  fair,  fluttering  thing  of 
fashion,  the  beautiful  wonder  and  admiration  of  the  hour,  lovely 
though  she  may  be,  and  possibly  even  gifted  with  high  attain- 
ments of  mind  and  character,  that  we  are  to  look  for  the 
true  standard  of  female  excellence.  "  Ye  cannot  serve  God 
and  Mammon,"  is  not  a  more  undeniable  allegation,  than  that 
woman  cannot  at  once  satisfy  the  demands  of  fashionable  and 
domestic  life.  They  are  wholly  incompatible  with  each  other, 
and  whatever  is  yielded  to  the  importunity  of  the  one,  detracts 
from  the  power  of  satisfying  the  claims  of  the  other.  In  de^ 
ciding  this  destiny  of  our  country-women  in  unfitting  them  for 
the  calm  pleasures  of  domestic  life,  and  leading  them  into  the 
tumultuous  vortex  of  folly  and  vanity — in  giving  them  an  edu- 
cation of  showy  accomplishments,  instead  of  cultivated  minds, 
and  well  regulated  tempers  —  in  teaching  them  the  wish  to 
shine,  rather  than  the  ambition  to  be  useful — the  desire  of 
wealth  and  expensive  pleasures,  rather  than  intellectual  advance- 
ment— in  leading  them  to  prefer  the  uneasy  excitement  of  a 
crowd,  to  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  books,  retirement,  and  ration- 
al conversation — the  flattery  and  admiration  of  the  many,  to 
the  sober  approbation  of  the  few — in  teaching  them  to  consult 
rather  their  inclinations  than  their  duty — to  follow  the  dictates 
of  fancy  or  caprice,  instead  of  reflective  judgment — we  believe 
the  slave  system  will  be  found  a  powerful  agent.  Those  who 
have  been  accustomed  from  youth  to  the  ready  service  of  de- 
pendants, rarely  acquire  habits  of  industry  and  extensive  use* 


MENTAL    METEMPSYCHOSIS.  117 

fulness.  The  mind  as  well  as  the  body  sinks  into  habits  of 
listless  indolence,  and  is  suffered  to  remain  inactive  and  unoc- 
cupied, or  fritters  away  its  noble  energies  in  the  trifling  excite- 
ments of  vanity  and  fashion. — Wealth  becomes  of  immense 
importance  as  the  means  of  supporting  her  extravagance,  and 
of  rivalling  or  eclipsing  her  compeers  in  their  love  of  folly : 
her  responsibility,  her  high  nature  as  a  rational  creature  are  almost 
forgotten  or  unheeded ;  anxious  rather  to  outshine  her  equals 
in  their  petty  distinctions  of  splendour  and  display,  than  to 
raise  those  who  are  beneath  her  to  a  higher  standard  of  intel- 
lectual and  moral  worth,  she  learns  to  trifle  away  the  loan  of 
her  existence,  and  to  waste  in  selfish  gratifications,  the  thousands 
that  have  been  wrung  with  the  most  odious  injustice  from  the 
hand  of  unrewarded  toil.  Thus  with  a  heart  undisciplined  by 
self-control,  a  mind  enervated  by  frivolous  pursuits,  and  a 
temper  accustomed  to  the  indulgence  of  all  its  humours,  how 
frail  is  the  bark  of  her  happiness !  How  imperfectly  is  she 
calculated  to  fill  the  station  and  perform  the  duties  assigned 
her  by  the  hand  of  Providence.  In  prosperity,  a  thing,  it  may 
be,  of  beauty  and  grace,  but  of  unsubstantial  endowments — in 
adversity  without  support,  and  without  resource,  and  in  neither 
performing  the  duties  of  a  consistent  Christian.  Nor  is  the 
evil  we  speak  of  confined  to  that  district  to  which  slavery  is 
limited.  The  frequent  intercourse  between  the  inhabitants  of 
the  different  slates,  gives  a  ready  transmission  to  manners  and 
habits.  The  ladies  of  the  north  imitate  those  of  the  south,  and 
a  fondness  for  show,  ornament,  and  extravagance,  almost  to  the 
exclusion  of  a  desire  for  the  better  wealth  of  substantial  acquire- 
ments and  moral  excellence,  invades  all  classes  of  society. 


MENTAL  METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

COULD  we  but  persuade  those  with  whom  we  plead,  in  behalf 
of  the  slave,  to  imagine  themselves  for  a  few  moments  in  his 
very  circumstances,  to  enter  into  his  feelings,  comprehend  all 
his  wretchedness,  transform  themselves  mentally  into  his  very 
self,  they  would  not  surely  long  withhold  their  compassion. 
Let  them  feel  the  heart-brokenness  of  being  separated  from  all 
they  love — take  the  long  last  glance  at  all  that  is  dear  to  them, 


118  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

and  while  the  brain  is  reeling,  and  the  hot  brow  throbbing  with 
agony,  know  that  their  sufferings  excite  only  the  heartless  jest, 
or  the  brutal  curse — let  the  fetter  lie  with  its  wearing  weight 
upon  their  wrists,  as  they  are  driven  off  like  cattle  to  the  market, 
and  the  successive  strokes  of  the  keen  thong  fall  upon  their 
shoulders  till  the  flesh  rises  in  long  welts  beneath  it,  and  the 
spouting  blood  follows  every  blow — let  them  go  day  after  day 
with  their  sick  hearts,  to  their  unceasing  and  hopeless  toil,  faint- 
ing beneath  the  hot  sun,  or  exposed  to  all  the  pitiless  beating 
of  the  elements — let  them  yield  up  their  hearts  again  for  a 
while  to  the  gentle  influences  of  affection,  till  they  feel  almost 
as  if  there  was  yet  something  like  to  happiness  in  their  lot,  and 
then  know  suddenly  that  they  are  to  gaze  no  more  upon  their 
beloved  objects  forever — let  them  enter  into  the  desolateness 
of  that  moment ;  stand  alone  and  forsaken  in  the  world  ;  with- 
out religion,  without  a  friend  in  earth  or  heaven,  to  whom  they 
may  turn  for  consolation  in  their  hour  of  trial ;  with  no  kind 
accents  to  soothe,  no  hope  to  cheer  them — oh !  would  they  but 
endeavour  to  realize  the  bitterness  of  such  a  lot,  surely,  surely, 
they  would  rush  to  the'  rescue  of  the  thousands  who  are  ago- 
nizing  beneath  its  endurance. 


EVENING  RETROSPECTION. 


Did  I  this  day  for  small  or  great, 

My  own  pursuits  forego, 
To  lighten  by  a  feather's  weight, 

The  mass  of  human  woe  ? — JANE  TAYLOR. 

THE  twilight  is  a  fit  season  for  retrospection.  There  is  a 
soothing  for  the  seared  spirit  in  its  hushing  influence,  and  when 
the  restless  and  wandering  thoughts  have  gathered  themselves 
back  to  the  heart,  and  settled  down  like  quiet  waters,  the  men- 
tal eye  may  look  down  amidst  their  deep  places,  taking  note 
of  all  its  imperfections.  Among  these  imperfections  may  we 
not  properly  class  the  want  of  a  warm  and  active  interest  in 
the  happiness  and  well-being  of  all  our  fellow  creatures  ?  If, 
absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  our  own  enjoyments,  or  yielding  all 
our  attention  to  our  own  pursuits,  or  our  own  cares,  we  neglect 


EVENING  RETROSPECTION.-~THE  FAVOURITE  SEASON.  119 

to  inquire  how  we  may  alleviate  the  misfortunes  or  contribute 
to  the  welfare  of  our  fellow  beings,  we  cannot  be  otherwise  than 
culpable.  Our  power  over  the  situation  of  others  may  seem 
almost  as  nothing,  but  let  us  remember  how  much  things  trifling 
in  themselves,  contribute  to  the  amount  of  human  happiness, 
and  that  in  the  sight  of  our  beneficent  Judge,  it  is  less  the 
offering,  than  the  spirit  which  prompts  that  offering,  that  is 
esteemed  of  value.  If  it  should  seem  too  great  a  subtraction 
from  our  own  comforts,  or  to  press  too  heavily  on  our  time  and 
our  industry,  to  resign  those  articles  which  have  been  purchased 
by  human  misery,  and  to  exert  ourselves  as  we  ought  in  the 
cause  of  emancipation,  let  us  compare  our  situation  with  that 
of  those  whose  wretchedness  we  would  feign  pass  by,  and  sure- 
ly the  contrast  will  render  the  sacrifice  easy.  If  the  advocates 
of  emancipation  would  daily,  in  a  retrospect  of  their  conduct, 
carefully  examine  whether  they  have  done  all  they  could  have 
done  in  behalf  of  the  victims  of  our  country's  injustice,  and  on 
each  succeeding  one  do  their  best  to  relieve  the  neglect  and  the 
indolence  that  the  past  might  acknowledge,  the  cause  of  abo- 
lition would  go  forward  with  an  accelerated  pace,  that  would 
soon  bring  it  to  a  triumphant  conclusion. 


THE  FAVOURITE  SEASON. 

IT  is  thy  favourite  season,  Coz.  The  gorgeous  clouds  of 
sunset  have  almost  departed,  and  the  air  has  grown  dim  amidst 
its  perfect  tranquillity,  like  a  starry  eye  whose  brightness  hath 
been  shadowed  by  the  depth  of  a  delicious  feeling. — Come,  -let 
us  go  abroad,  and  stand  upon  that  old  bridge  thou  wot'st  of, 
where  we  may  watch  the  still  shadows  that  lie  on  the  smooth 
deep  places  of  the  stream,  and  the  flashing  ripples  that  go  on 
singing  to  the  gentle  light.  Or,  if  thou  sayest,  we  will  take 
the  wood  path,  that  leads  over  the  scattered  stones  of  yonder 
drawling  rivulet,  to  where  the  green  sod  slopes  away  nearly  to 
the  water's  edge  from  the  heaped-up  pile  of  webs,  and  the  old 
half-burnt  tree  stands  in  its  bleakness,  like  a  solitary  watcher 
in  the  solemn  twilight.  Is  it  not  pleasant  to  be  so  together  in 
the  gentle  hush,  while  indistinct  shadowings  of  happiness  come 
over  the  heart,  like  the  soft  dimness  upon  the  clinquant  waters  ? 


120  PHILANTHROPIC    AND    MORAL    ESSAYS. 

— and,  look,  friend,  seest  thou  not  yonder  bright  spark— the 
star  thou  lovest — a  beautiful  and  lonely  thing  in  the  blue  hea- 
vens, shining  like  a  far-seen  beacon,  to  summon  all  hearts  to 
the  gathering  place  of  prayer !  The  wild-bird  catches  the  light 
of  its  pale  beams  as  he  hurries  homeward  to  his  nest,  and  its 
first  twinkling  ray  is  the  signal  that 

Summons  "  home  the  bee," 

And  sets  the  weary  labourer  free 

from  his  day-long  task  of  industry.  Oh,  there  is  gladness  of 
spirit  in  the  twilight  hour  to  those  who  are  indeed  free,  and 
who  may  eat  in  fearlessness  of  heart,  amidst  their  band  of  loved 
and  loving  ones,  the  bread  which  they  have  wrung  with  a 
strong  sinew  from  the  earth. — What  matters  it  that,  from  the 
rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun,  they  may  have  bent  their  limbs 
to  the  service  of  another?  The  twilight  brings  them  their  re- 
ward, and  they  go  onwards  to  their  humble  homes  with  an  un- 
stooping  mien,  and  the  blessed  consciousness  that  no  hand  dare 
invade  the  privileges  of  their  home  sanctuary.  But  the  slave 
— how  may  he  lift  up  a  glad  eye  to  yon  bright  messenger?  A 
release  from  toil,  if  release  indeed  it  brings  him,  lifts  not  the 
heavy  yoke  of  servitude  from  off  his  neck,  nor  gives  to  his 
heart  one  delightful  throb  of  security  and  happiness.  He  too 
may  have  a  home,  a  wife,  and  a  smiling  group  of  young  loving 
ones,  yet  happy  amid  their  childish  ignorance,  who  have  been 
wont  to  meet  his  returning  step  with  the  fond  name  of  father. 
But  the  threshold  and  the  hearth-stone  that  he  left  at  the  early 
dawn,  surrounded  by  faces  of  glad  innocence,  may  now  be 
stripped  and  desolate,  or  echo  back  from  its  solitary  walls  only 
the  sad  voice  of  maternal  lamentation.  He  knows  not  but  to- 
morrow's sun  may  find  him  a  far  distant  wanderer,  torn  away 
from  all  the  breathing  affections  of  his  bosom,  and  transferred 
to  another  master  and  another  scene,  as  reckless  as  though  his 
heart  were  pulseless  as  the  unsuffering  clod.  May  the  peace- 
fulness  of  the  pure  twilight  impart  its  tranquillity  to  his  bosom 
— or  soothe  with  its  tender  light  the  darkness  of  his  fate  ?  Will 
it  teach  him  to  forget  that  he  is  a  slave  ? — a  wronged,  despised, 
degraded  slave !  Alas,  the  scar  of  his  fetters  is  too  deeply 
printed  in  his  soul,  and  the  dim  air  cannot  cover  it  with  its 
shadow. 


iiiiiiiiiH 


* 


